Of Christmas, Cases, and Champagne
by EmilyDoreen
Summary: Sherlock returns to the Holmes' family home for Christmas with John, Molly and Mycroft's permission to 'misbehave'; it's the first time seeing most of his relatives since his 'death' and disguised feelings, childhood memories, scandals and stories stimulate rumours which spiral into chaos, heartbreak, fluff and romance. Sherlolly
1. The Partial Solidifying of Water

"_Come, then," returned the nephew gaily. "What right have you to be dismal? What reason have you to be morose? You're rich enough." _

― _Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol_

* * *

_**December the 19th**_

It was quiet at 221B, and 'quiet' for Sherlock was never a good thing. It meant there was nothing exciting going on, nothing exhilarating enough to keep him remotely occupied. John had kept his head down whilst Sherlock's fits of boredom expelled into hours of grief and arguments in the past. There had been no cases rating more than a five in ten days. _Ten long, harrowing, antagonizing days: _One clearly obvious murder, two burglaries: one at a school the other at a Cooperative, a cry for help from a child with an abusive father in Lithuania (not his division), a cat gone missing under "mind boggling"- Sherlock laughed at the notion- circumstances, and a stolen painting from the national gallery, which the detective had spotted on eBay within the hour.

_Dull, obvious, pretentious, ridiculous, boring-_

"Sherlock, it's snowing."

Sherlock blinked, and quirked his eyebrows nonchalantly at his flat-mate from his space on the settee. John was leaning near the window facing out to Baker Street, fingertips grazing the glass, a sense of wonder crossing his features as he gazed at the sight of white flakes drifting gracefully towards the ground below; the image raised about ten years off his age in an instant. He smiled lightly, "Sherlock, it's snowing."

"I heard you the first time." Muttered the detective, sinking further into his dressing gown with a pout.

John paused, but continued wistfully, "This means we should probably put the decoration's up." The army doctor turned slightly, acknowledging the box that was overflowing with colourful wires, a box that made a delightful noise when being moved and carried a dusty scent to it.

The box was entitled: ___Christmas decorative crap_

Sherlock frowned at John "Since when does the partial solidifying of water particles justify dressing the flat in energy draining light bulbs in a ridiculous array of colours?"

"Alright Scrooge, calm down" John smirked and then grinned as Sherlock's gaze hardened. The former took a moment to think, eyes drifting over the box with light determination, "We'll put them up this weekend, then. It needs doing… I hate a home in December without decorations."

"As you said the last Christmas we were here," Droned the detective, "And I say, John, that it doesn't make a difference. A set of lights, tinsel, and a tree does not constitute a celebration of the birth of a holy and all righteous son of a God. It's sentiment."

"Of course it's sentiment, Sherlock. That's the point!"

Sherlock frowned, raising to his feet slovenly "Dear me you sound like my mother."

"Isn't that a good thing?" Snickered John.

"No."

"_Would you rather say that to her face?" _

The pair both stopped aghast and turned around to see Mycroft posed in the doorway, umbrella gripped in his left hand. The musty light of the flat billowed around his sophisticated yet slightly lacking physique facing inwards at the duo, causing a long slim shadow to cast across the floor of 221B. He held a distant yet contempt smile upon his features that barely graced his eyes, hinting at the lack of romanticism that withdrew him from any of his current relationships, including that of his brothers.

"If I recall Sherlock, you enjoyed our mother's Christmas parties." He continued snidely, walking into the room with that heavy presence that turned heads even though he wasn't doing anything at all.

_The presence of the government then, _John mused to himself with a smirk.

Sherlock curled up on the settee with a large huff and folded his arms, clearly unimpressed with his brother's indignant entrance to the flat without request. "What do you want, Mycroft?"

His brother slowly curled his upper lip which bought across the sense of impending but nonetheless 'not needed' drama. He extended a hand and held out a letter, Sherlock cocked an eyebrow but then took it grudgingly, looked at it for a wavering moment, and then dropped it on the floor. "No."

"Sherlock." Mycroft droned.

"I'm not going, I didn't go last year and I don't want to be put through it this year."

"You were 'dead' last year" interjected Mycroft sardonically.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, and it made for a nicer and quieter Christmas."

"What's this?" John asked, he reached up for the envelope and took it into his hand.

Sherlock's hand reached out and grabbed John's arms, "Don't open it."

"Why?"

"Sherlock thinks because he doesn't live like the usual Holmes' that he's exempt from our social occasions," Mycroft explained with an upturned head, "Which he is not."

John frowned at let go of the envelope.

"They don't want me there." Sherlock omitted, folding his arms, "Why should I try? Whenever I've been there I've only caused arguments; Cousin Marie has started betting on who's going to cause the scandals that I so _delightfully_ point out!"

"That's only because every year you have to bring an affair or sensational scandal to light to please your huge ego" John tightened his lips to restrain a laugh as Mycroft lectured, "Keep to yourself and perhaps you won't be shunned as much."

"I'm not going. Too much to do here, too many cases."

"That's not what Scotland Yard is telling me." Shot-back Mycroft and Sherlock grimaced. Slowly, Mycroft rolled his shoulders back and took a different approach, "Mummy wants you there"

Both Sherlock and John looked up in the same instant.

Having finally caught Sherlock's interest, the latter tilted his head slightly, "Why does she?"

"You've barely contacted her since you returned." Sherlock rolled his eyes, "She worries about you... And she wants to know about the Pathologist you spend so much time with, all the family are alight with rumours."

Heat began to simmer into Sherlock's eyes, "That's none of their- or your- business, Mycroft. I'm not a spectacle of gossip."

"Oh, but you are."

Sherlock steeped his hands under his chin and let out a small growl of annoyance, muttering to himself "Social conventions: Just a place for families to wallow in their own self-pity or riches- riches some d_on't deserve_-" Mycroft swallowed "And then claim they're all emotionally attached because of the material exchange. The logistics are pointless, I have much better things to do then wallow in the Holmes' ignorance of how pathetic most of them are."

Mycroft's jaw clenched just for a moment, his eyes wavering from his brother's form. With a careful eye, he moved his sodden umbrella and rested it by the fireplace, before returning to his previous position.

At this point, John had retrieved the letter again and opened it.

_Salutations!  
Once again, the annual Holmes' Christmas party  
is running from the 22__nd__ of December until the 27__th.  
__At the family home, come bringing your usual dress  
shirts for dinner with the traditional gear for the event.  
We shall be meeting in the drawing-room at 1500 hours on  
the Sunday, leave belongings with the butlers in the  
courtyard who shall deposit them in your rooms.  
Hope to meet all your acquaintances then.  
Yours sincerely,  
Mrs Violet Holmes_

"If you come," Started Mycroft more judiciously than before, "Then you can bring John, and Molly. Devout your attention onto them rather than the family, if you must. Your appearance will mean a lot, many need full proof that you're still alive."

Sherlock frowned, "What about Mrs Hudson?"

"She's going to her sister's," John intercepted, "Leaving on the 21st."

After a beat, Sherlock replied reluctantly "Alright, I'll go. But only if John and Molly join me."

A smug grin tugged at Mycroft's lips as Sherlock stood up, towering over him. Quickly, he muttered, "But do not expect me to behave."

Myroft rolled his head back and retrieved his umbrella again, heading towards the door with his task complete, "Don't worry, Sherlock. I never do."

* * *

_**December the 20****th**_

"A book- The book!" Exclaimed Sherlock, throwing down his worn copy of _The Loop Hole_ onto the table in front of an agitated Lestrade without much of a second glance, "Just look at it!"

Just his luck, a decent case had turned up the next day... Not that Sherlock needed a full day to solve it.

Lestrade lowered his eyebrows at him, "You can't be serious, Sherlock-."

"Oh, Lestrade, how is it a man of your superiority can be so naïve?! It's irrelevant, the details match; the killer is clearly the author of this book- Everything matches: the characteristics, the murder weapons, the torture, the affair against his wife, even down to the man's nickname." Sherlock huffed triumphantly and pulled up the collar of his belstaff, ready to leave.

"But," Drawled Lestrade hopelessly trailing after him with a sense of abundance, "This man is an acclaimed author, an honest religious man-"

"-Who managed to commit a triple homicide within the space of sixteen days." At Lestrade's vacant expression Sherlock threw his hands out in the air; the pair headed outside of the run-down crime scene onto the open street, not reacting to the sleet as it pelted down upon them. Sherlock grimaced, "It's all in front of you! How can you not piece together something simple?"

"The man is in Switzerland, Sherlock. He couldn't have possibly committed a crime of this vulgarity, especially when not on English soil and with no connections whatsoever to the victims involved. You're creating oblivious propaganda based on fiction!" Contradicted the inspector vehemently. A few feet away, Anderson sniggered, before returning to examining ink stains on the wall.

"Not if you looked at the victim's feet. I think you'll find that Sir Roosevelt was, and is, in England." Sherlock remarked, raising an eyebrow of a distinct regal manner.

Lestrade swallowed, glaring at the consulting detective icily. "The victim's feet." It wasn't even a question, it was a statement- a mockery- Sherlock rolled his eyes with nonchalance, and began to explain.

* * *

"See?" Exclaimed Sherlock, leaning over the corpse in St Bart's lab exuberating in confidence.

Beside him, Lestrade and Molly stared at the body, mouths agape. "God, you're… You're right." Lestrade reached into his pocked quickly and withdrew his mobile, "Excuse me." And then he left.

Left alone with Sherlock, Molly shuffled a little and decided it was best to busy herself then stay still and overwhelm herself with tension. She went to the side and began to clean up the equipment Sherlock had so ungracefully left out.

"A fiction imitating the life of a madman" Sherlock murmured, smirking, before turning around to Molly, "Isn't it hateful?"

She tried to keep her eyes focused on the equipment, "Uh… Yes, very."

Sherlock swept in to the room she was in, abandoning the corpse behind him and stood the opposite side of the table to where she stood. "I have a proposition for you, Molly, for Christmas?"

"Oh?" She gasped enthusiastically, before relenting, she pulled in on herself in trying to correct her innocent action, "Oh, I mean, well- What is it? I'm working and then I thought we were all at the flat in the evening-"

"Not the flat, no." Molly raised her head to him then in confusion, Sherlock continued wistfully, "I've been invited home, as in, to my childhood home. I want you and John to come with me, which you are, I've already had Stamford move your Christmas leave to the 22nd till the 27th"

"I-I was going to work over Christmas, Sherlock." Molly sighed dejectedly, "You know I was."

"Yes." His smile faltered a little, and just for the briefest moment he seemed awkward, but it passed as soon as it had arrived, and he looked at her regally, with focus, and yet his voice was slightly… Hesitant? Was that it? It was barely noticeable, Molly was probably kidding herself. "I realized… I haven't thanked you."

She swallowed, and her hands steadied, no longer moving the equipment away, "Thanked me? Why would you-"

"You helped me fake my death," Explained the detective as if he were reciting simple facts from a book, and yet there was a tenderness to his voice that Molly recognized, "You let me stay with you until I had to move away… You put yourself on the line… For me."

His brow knitted ever so slightly, as if he was puzzled by his own words. Molly had stilled completely, her hands hovering in mid-air embarrassingly rather than by her sides.

"You fixed me when I was broken."

Molly's eyes widened a little, suddenly her throat felt dry and her palms clammy. What did he mean by that? Yes, he had been… 'broken' after the fall, more mentally than physically, even though he was so injured he couldn't walk or dress and bathe- much to her horror- for a good few days. The fact that he had 'killed' himself had destroyed his spirit, and although he had saved his friends it felt like he had lost. He hadn't wanted to destroy Moriaty's network, he had wanted to go back to 221B Baker Street with his said friends and return to his normal life. The fact that he had to watch them suffer and put himself through torment undercover was a weight on his shoulders he could barely cope with. Plagued with nightmares and guilt, he had for the first time confided in his feelings about how he felt with all this, to Molly.

She had helped him, made him feel worthy of praise and comfort, helped him to regain full health and even when starting the potential areas to begin on in his mission. They shared a bed for two weeks and four days, and they had gotten closer.

Molly blinked, _I fixed Sherlock Holmes._

For Sherlock however, Molly had done more than fix him, she had awoken something within him he didn't even know he had. She had held him as he confessed his grievances, had encouraged him to eat with determination and yet hadn't complained when he didn't, her soft eyes had gazed at him with pure understanding and trust as her gentle hands held his as she had told him exactly what he needed to hear, and her body had been so warm and 'fitting' against his in the mornings after they'd gone to sleep on opposite sides of the bed but had always woken up entangled in each other's arms. It was a newfound closeness, and Sherlock had been so beaten up he hadn't forced her away. In fact, it helped him more than any of the medication had. However, when the moment came that Sherlock had slightly heard a hum of a new found area of affection somewhere within the limbic system for her, he had to leave. He had omitted the strange feelings within the very hour of his departure.

"You don't have to thank me," Molly began, voice short of a whisper, "Anyone would have done it."

He guffawed and upturned the corner of his mouth, "No, they wouldn't. I was right to trust you and I haven't shown you how much it all meant to me, so I'm going to change that now." He walked over and stood close, not as much to compromise her personal space, but enough to make her heart beat that bit faster, "Come with John and I, Molly, you've earned a break… My family like new people and you know what? I'll be honoured if you'll spend Christmas with me."

She remembered the last Christmas she had spent with him, and she nearly shuddered with the memory. But things were different now, they understood each other and she trusted that Sherlock wouldn't humiliate her like that again. "Okay, I'll go."

"Great! Now, if you excuse me, I have a case to wrap up. Come to the flat tomorrow at 11pm, I'll email you the things you need to bring with you. Until then, Molly."

With an all-too dramatic _swish _of his belstaff, he left the morgue, and Molly couldn't help but smile. She was spending Christmas with Sherlock Holmes, and he completely wanted her to be there.

* * *

_**December the 21st**_

Sherlock sat back in the car seat, pointing to the window for John, "Take this exit- This one- God, John, can't you indicate properly? I've seen _Anderson_ drive cars better than this."

"If you have a problem with my driving you should have driven yourself! This... sodding... gear stick!" Hissed John, turning off and driving down the road Sherlock had directed him too, only stalling the car once.

John had been surprised when he had heard Sherlock's family home was on the outskirts of_ Lower Bourne, Farnham, Surrey; _the army doctor had always figured because of the lack of time he communicated with his family that he had lived far away from London as a child, not this drive that took little over an hour. It was dark outside, and John simply focused on the road and the car's headlights, not taking into account the scene around him. What he did notice was there were no more cars, and that they were getting further out into the country, more isolated from the small village they had just driven through.

"Is your house like Downton Abbey?" John questioned absently, eyes on the road.

Sherlock frowned, "What?"

"Downton Abbey- Don't you?" His eyes snapped over to Sherlock's rigid body and mouth in a flat line, unimpressed. John shrugged, "Oh, never mind…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and then turned his gaze to the scene behind him, even in this short car journey Molly had fallen asleep and her cheek was pressed up against the cold window as her mouth slightly slacked open. He deduced that working at the lab all day had exhausted her, and he regarded it as amusing.

He turned back to John, "Don't try and discover my life story while you're here. I know it's tempting, but there's nothing of importance to do with my past that should intercept with this party. I don't want you researching and then… Blogging about it."

John paused, "I won't."

Sherlock nodded curtly. He knew it was inevitable that both John and Molly would learn a lot about his childhood while they were there, and in the end he trusted them enough to not care that much about it… But if they dug further and tried to understand his past and his roots, then he worried.

There were things about him that he would rather leave behind and locked away, things that could damage their impressions of him if they knew, and he prayed that this wouldn't be the turning point for his inner demons to come back and bite him on the neck.

In the dark, John could just make out the outline of a rather old but regal looking mansion. Save the details, he knew this was the sort of home attached to an estate that the family will have owned for centuries.

He followed the road until some other car's came into view, all cleaner and sleeker than his own (or Harry's, he had borrowed it with the promise of returning it on Boxing Day).

"Park on this road." Sherlock instructed, "We can't take the main entrance because of the hour, Daddy will have locked up. We shall enter through the servant's hall and then retire, some of the guests will have already arrived and I don't want to be bombarded by them until morning."

_The servants hall, definitely Downton Abbey._

As if reading his thoughts, Sherlock rolled his eyes, "We don't have servants, John. It's just the family used too; the name sticks with the room. We have… employees now."

As he said this they pulled over a curb and parked. Sherlock wrapped his coat tighter and then moved from the car and moving to the boot. John released his seatbelt and turned to Molly, prodding at her leg. "Molly, we're here."

With a groggy moan, she opened her eyes, "Here? What?" Her eyes focused on John and she remembered, "Oh. Sorry… I don't normally sleep in vehicles."

"It's fine." He smirked, "Come on, let's go."

John left through his car door and Molly began to hear him and Sherlock bantering about the luggage in the cold air. She withdrew a small breath and took a moment to think about what she was doing. She was at Sherlock's childhood home. His parents would be here. His extended family- If he has an extended famliy- would be, too. Molly knew he came from a very rich background but didn't like it. It explained that whilst being so materialistic he was rebellious to the regal side of things; for his mind, a rich lifestyle was far too boring and pretentious. So what had his life been before London? What had made him despise his upper-class upbringing so much?

"Molly!" Called John from outside.

Quickly, the pathologist stumbled from the car into the cold air and instantly began to shiver. Both Sherlock and John were carrying the luggage, and John was holding hers too. She approached him to carry it herself, but he dismissed her claiming 'he could manage it'. Absently, she turned her head to the home itself.

And it hit her all too quickly how much she'd underestimated Sherlock's family's wealth.

_Oh, my, God. _

She couldn't make any details out, but the size of the building was tremendous, and it was clearly years old. She was surrounded by countryside and she could see horses stables- _horses! _Over a small hedge a few feet away. This wasn't just a mansion as John had described it, this was a full on stately manor house, one she'd associate with Lords or Duke's… Not Sherlock; As egotistic as he was, she associated places like these far too much with the small-minded rather than the ravenous mind of a consulting detective.

The group headed up to the building, none of them saying a word, and Sherlock appeared with a key the other's hadn't realized he had and moved to unlock the door. The room inside was dark, and he let them in before turning and locking it again.

"I haven't told anyone we were arriving today or this late, everyone will have retired already, keeping in mind that tomorrow's party will probably run till around two in the morning. We'll keep the lights off, follow me and you'll all get a tour tomorrow."

So they followed him, unable to make out much at all. John huffed after a while with all the luggage he was carrying, so Molly eventually took her bag of him and carried it herself. It was terrifying to walk through this home in the dark, with every step she took Molly thought she was going to knock over a priceless ornament or disturb a family ghost- _This place was generations old, of course they'll have a family ghost- _or something; it was unnerving.

They travelled up stairs for god knows how long, until they approached an dimly lit corridor with cream walls and a deep plush red carpet, with the space shining orange with small lights doused down either side. It looked rather like a hotel with the way the room's were spread out. Sherlock lifted his hand and made a 'shush' motion with his index finger, not that they had made much noise anyway and he led them down the corridor. At the end of it was another long staircase similar to the one they had just came from which headed downwards.

"John this is your room," He gestured to the one in front of him, "The one on the right is yours, Molly, and this one here" He acknowledged the door behind him, "Is mine, although I may abandon it and return to my old one because I never liked the guest rooms. If I'm gone in the morning, that's where I'll be."

Sherlock's friends both gave him small nods at that. John smiled, reaching for his door handle, "I guess I'll see you in the morning, then."

"Quite so."

"Alright, night Sherlock, good night Molly." With a curt nod, which may as well of been a salute with the strictness of the movement he left to his space. He reappeared a moment later sticking his head through the door, bedazzled, "How can you not like these rooms? They're… Shit, I'm a commoner. A bloody commoner."

A low laugh rumbled in Sherlock's throat, "Good night, John."

"Right, yeah" He chuckled awkwardly, "Good night, don't let the bed bugs bite, both of you."

Molly giggled as he left again and Sherlock frowned, not understanding the joke. They were alone.

Molly and Sherlock stood in silence in the corridor. "I didn't realize your home was so… grand." She admitted wearily.

Sherlock blinked and shrugged, "Don't worry, it isn't. Looks are very deceiving, the Holmes' estate is the opposite of 'grand'"

Molly nodded a little and trained her brown eyes on the wall paper, before abruptly turning, "I guess I should go," She managed a small smile, "Good night, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked at her for a moment, with those eyes that deduced everything about a person in a floating second and then they softened, and he looked as relaxed as she had made him sometimes when they had stayed together. A small grin tugged at the edges of his lips. With his free hand he gently reached out and brushed Molly's cheek, completely stilling her in that one moment. "Thank you for agreeing to come… The truth is, I don't think I could face the whole family again without you by my side."

"I… I, it's fine."

"Good." He breathed, before moving away and opening his door, "Sleep well, Molly."

Before she could reply, his door had closed, and she simply replied "You too" to the stillness of the corridor, before retiring into her own room.

* * *

John was awoke in the night by banging and thudding. Grimacing, he turned to the digital clock on the bedside table, reading 4:13am. With a groan, the army doctor rolled onto his stomach and buried his face into his pillow, wanting to fall asleep again-

_Bang, thud, thud, crash-_

"_Shit!"_

John rolled over again and frowned. The noise wasn't too loud and he wished he could have slept through it, but army rituals had made him a very light sleeper and always on guard for noises or movement around him that weren't usual. Running his hand over his face, he dragged himself from the bed and opened the door to the corridor. The bangs had come from the staircase near his door, and he walked over to them.

A young woman knelt near the bottom of the stair case, she held a suitcase and it had clearly fallen down the stairs as now it lay face down with several items of clothing now strewn over the stairs themselves. The girl was muttering incoherent curse words to herself as she turned over the suitcase and started stuffing the clothes back in messily.

She looked, John guessed, anything between fifteen and eighteen, her hair was a warm blonde and it spiralled in loose curls to midway down her back, her figure was slight but she still wasn't too skinny, she looked a perfect image of young health. "Hello? Are you alright?" John called quietly, mindful that many people were still asleep in the rooms a few feet away.

She looked up suddenly and looked at him with piercing blue eyes both nervous and friendly, "Yeah, sorry, did I wake you?"

Her accent was enough to tell him she wasn't English, perhaps she was Russian, or Swedish, he wasn't sure. "It's fine, I'm a light sleeper… Do you uh, need a hand?" He gestured to the suitcase.

"Oh, would you mind? I've just got here, and I'm half asleep, and this weighs a ton. It isn't even mine…" She trailed off as John joined her, starting to put clothes back in the suitcase with her- Men's clothing, he couldn't help but notice. After a beat, she asked. "Do you know which one of these room's will be Sherlock Holmes'? These are his clothes from when he…"

John froze, "Yes. I came here with him, I'm-"

"John Watson!" She exclaimed, suddenly smiling, "Of course, I didn't know you were coming. If only someone had warned me; oh what am I saying, of_ course_ you'd be here! To be fair though Sherlock didn't know I was going to be here either, this is going to be a trifle of fun!" She giggled softly.

"You read the blog then?" John questioned lightly, still moving clothes with her.

She nodded excitedly, "Yes, I love it."

"…Are you a relative? A niece? Cousin?"

Her movements slowed a little, and then they stopped, she looked up at him and knitted her brow, "Don't you know who I am? I figured you would…" She trailed off.

John suddenly realized he didn't know her name. "No, I'm sorry. Sherlock doesn't mention the family that much, actually." The girl pulled back, she looked stung, "Why?" John asked, feeling worried at her reaction, "Should I know who you are?"

She swallowed, and suddenly stood up, "I have to go."

Before he knew it she was rushing off leaving him with the suitcase on the stairs. "Wait!" He called, as audibly as he could with sleeping house guests, "Who are you? Who are you to Sherlock?"

She turned and bit her lip, forcing back tears, "Tell him that that is me returning all the crap he left with my mum and I when he stayed with us in Lithuania whilst destroying Moriaty's network," John's jaw dropped a little, "Tell him that I've had to fight for months to actually be here at all, and tell him that I thought he'd at least of the decency to tell his closest friend that I exist."

Within the blink of an eye, she had gone.

* * *

_Reviews are like Christmas presents, please leave one for me? Or just because of Sherlolly? ;-)_

_Much love,_

_Emily _


	2. Fir Trees and Burgundy Dresses

_Arghh you guys! Thank you for the AMAZING response of chapter one in the form of followers, favourites, and reviews, I gaped at my laptop looking at the amount of emails I got- Literally gaped!_

_Shoutouts to: Gothams Angel Avenger, CrystalClear98, Zora Arian, Arcoiris, Nocturnias, Chloe, Jacomondo, Itmonster20, MisplacedHyperQuill, Akeenreader, Rosie85, and aurimaedre for reviewing! It means so much!  
_

**Chapter Two: Fir Trees and Burgundy Dresses **

* * *

_'A lovely thing about Christmas is that it's compulsory, like a thunderstorm, and we all go through it together.'- Garrison Keillor  
_

* * *

The next morning, Molly awoke feeling content. Donned in a quilt she only supposed was made of the finest feathers, she snuggled further into it and shut her eyes, wishing she could stay for longer. Her mind began to take in where she was, and what she was doing, and it made her stomach twist in excitement. She was going to meet Sherlock's family; it sounded like a romantic request if anything and she couldn't help but in the back of her mind think of it as one. Sherlock cared about her and it bought Molly much solace to know and understand this. She'd learnt to know that Sherlock found peace in her that he hadn't experienced elsewhere before, even with John, perhaps in all his childhood.

When he had stayed with her after The Fall, Molly remembered a specific evening when she had dressed his wounds and he had said, "You treat me as a human, Molly. You look at me as if I'm 'normal'; I don't understand it because I'm anything but that. Why do you think of me as a normal man?" The broken look in his eyes had told her that this was a huge confession to make.

Molly hesitated, before looking up at him shyly as she replied, "Because you are… You may not be ordinary, but you're certainly human: You are a man, a good man; and I'll never judge you for how you think on the world, because it's what makes you the most human out of all of us." It was in that moment it had felt as if all his muscles had relaxed under her hands, under her eyes.

Pondering over the memory, Molly drew her legs from the bed and walked to the velvet burgundy curtains that spanned over the great width of the wall. She clutched the material in her hand and drew it aside, yawning as she did so.

_Wow._

It was the first time seeing the outside of her room in the light, and she could barely hold a gasp. Her window, she guessed, was by the front of the house, she looked down upon a cream pathway that headed half a mile from the home until splitting into two roads heading right and left ; nearby she could see the horse fields again and following that some woods, and smiled as the creatures gallivanted across the frosted winter ground. The house was surrounded by finely cut grass and an old fashioned fountain with angels on musical instruments sitting gaily upon it on either side of the pathway. Looking down, she saw two men approaching the house in tailored suits, hands drawn behind their backs regally. She knitted her brow, leaning closer to the glass to get a better view. Swinging a riding crop in his palm, Molly recognized Mycroft instantly. Had he been out horse-riding? It was barely seven. The man next to him was around the same height, but his hair was grey and receding. Molly blinked, taking in the man's features, noticing he looked remarkably like Mycroft, but had Sherlock's face shape and cheeks; a relative, Molly concluded. She watched them until they went out of view and into the house, heads turned up with regality near royalty.

The pathologist let out a small breath that she hadn't realized she'd held.

_I'm so inferior to all of them. _

A knock made her jump. Quickly, she dressed herself in a fitting white silk dressing gown, and approached the door, pulling it open.

John, dressed in his own dressing gown, and navy blue slippers smiled at her. After a small moment looking at each other, they both laughed. They'd never seen each other out of their day clothes before.

"Morning, Molls."

Molly giggled, running a hand through her loose and tangled hair, "John."

The Army Doctor smiled, withdrawing his mobile from his dressing gown pocket, "Sherlock texted me, he's in the… Uh, parlour, apparently? He asks for us to join him there before he tears his hair out."

"Oh dear" joked Molly, "Do you know where it is? I think it means the kitchen."

"As if I know," Chuckled the army Doctor, "But I think we may have passed it last night. We'll go exploring, come on." He held out a hand for her.

"Wait," Nervously, Molly left and returned to her room's dressing table and tried to pull a brush through her hair, "Shouldn't we make get dressed first?"

John blinked, "There's no need, Sherlock mentioned it on the text. Any guests here don't awake till nine, there's no reason to get dressed until then."

"Oh, okay." With a small smile, Molly put the brush back walked over and took the hand he'd offered to her earlier.

"Let's go adventuring." He smiled with a mischievous glint in his eyes, before leading them down the further away staircase in their dressing gowns.

Molly watched John as they walked, and it warmed her heart. He just looked so_ happy. _Molly remembered how broken he had been after Sherlock's death, and she was so proud of how far he had come.

"Something odd happened last night" John began, looking through every door to see if that was where Sherlock was, ignoring the details of how grand it all was until later.

"Oh?" Responded Molly looking at him with interest.

John frowned a little, "There was a girl here. She had dropped a suitcase down the stairs and I went to help her, she knew who I was."

"A relative?"

"I think so, but I'm not sure. The suitcase she had w_as _Sherlock's, if it hadn't been for her age I would've guessed she worked here. She said she was returning it to him, and claimed they were his belongings after he had stayed with her during his death when he was in Lithuania." John paused, "After I didn't recognize her, she got angry and left; she seemed to think that Sherlock should have told me about her."

"Any idea about who she is?"

"None," John clarified, "But Sherlock did spend some time in Lithuania when destroying Moriaty's network, he told me so; I always figured he had been alone though, it makes no sense."

Molly bit her lip as they traipsed down a huge stair case with golden banisters and red carpet leading to a polished marble floor, to a room that looked like the main entrance to the home. Molly briefly wondered what it must have been like for Sherlock growing up in this place, it looked like no place for a child. She continued, "He's never mentioned anything to me, I have no clue."

"If only we could all deduce like him, eh?" Quipped John as Molly nodded with a small laugh.

Eventually, after finding a blonde maid, they discovered the parlour under her guidance, and stood by the door watching a scene of pure domesticity.

Sherlock was sat back in an old wooden chair in his own pajamas and silk dressing gown, laying his bare feet like a grotesque teenager across an aging table. Sat diagonally to him was Mycroft, posture tight and dressed in the suit Molly had saw him in outside. He was eating pancakes courteously eyeing his brother's mannerisms with disgust. He reached for a folded newspaper from the center of the table and began to read. A woman was in the room with them in a long lilac lace gown that pooled at her feet, she was rather elderly and held her greying hair up in a loose bun with the odd tendril touching her face. Despite her age, she was pretty and looked fighting fit.

Before they made their presence known, John and Molly shared a look as they knew just by glancing that this was Sherlock's mother. He had already gone through the painful reunion of meeting her again since his return without them there; it was probably the better thing to do.

With a yawn, Sherlock dragged himself to stand and reached into the fridge, and began to help his mother in making more pancakes. "Blimey, there's barely any mixture left!" Exclaimed Violet Holmes, before lowering her expression and turning to her eldest son accusingly, "Mycroft Holmes." Her upper class accent reminded John of his secondary school geography teacher, and it made him grimace slightly.

Sherlock smirked, "I thought you were trying to _watch_ your weight, Mycroft."

"Shut up, it's Christmas." Hissed the latter as he bit into his food with a clear exaggeration to make a point, but then chewing slowly as the offense took hold.

"Really, Mycroft, we eat enough at these parties anyway," Scolded Violet as if she were talking to a child and not the head of the British government, "I shan't have you filling yourself up even before the events start."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, suggesting he'd been through this lecture too many times.

John and Molly strode into view, and all three Holmes' looked up. Sherlock narrowed his eyes in deduction, Mycroft returned his gaze to the newspaper, and Violet broke out into one of those motherly grins that made you feel instantly cared for. "Oh, my dears! Hello!"

Sherlock's head tilted slightly as he took in Molly's full view of nightie, white silk-_Silk!-_ dressing gown exposing her bare legs… Sherlock decided in that moment that he'd missed her in the mornings and not even realized. He had missed _morning-Molly. He'd missed her morning legs._

Violet Holmes rushed over to John and gripped his face in her hands, before kissing his forehead affectionately. At John's dumbfounded expression Molly began to laugh, but then Violet did the exact same thing to her. Sherlock pouted at the sentiment, disregarding his eyes from Molly's legs.

"Oh, just look at both you! You're absolutely gorgeous." She held John and Molly both by one hand each and smiled admiringly at them, "I read your blog all the time, Watson; please don't stop with it- It's the only thing that keeps me informed with what _this one"_- She acknowledged Sherlock, "is doing on a day-to-day basis."

"Mummy" Sherlock chastised calmly.

"And oh!" She let go of their hands and then moved with the swiftness of a starling to her son, standing beside him and running her hands over his dark curls affectionately, "Look at this _face_! He looks younger now you're in his life, Molly."

Molly fought the impulse to contradict that statement severely, as Sherlock gave her a flat _this-isn't-funny _look. "T-Thank you" She stammered.

"Right, I shan't keep you. Theodore and I are running over the final arrangements for this evening, it's going to be wonderful." As Violet spoke, John and Molly made their way down to the table and sat down, not knowing entirely what to do. "Sherlock, second cousin Phillip is bringing his friend Agatha with him, she's from a good family _and_ she _wants_ to meet you."

"And as I say every year," Droned Sherlock as she let go of him, "I'm not going along with your… matchmaking" He shuddered at the last word. John's eyes narrowed as he watched, realizing that his mother suffered with old-fashioned morals more than most.

"Oh, but she's a lovely girl, really" Happily contradicted Violet, sitting down, "A scientist, she works as an astrophysicist"

Sherlock guffawed.

Mycroft snorted burying his head further into his paper.

Violet Holmes blanched distastefully, "What is it?"

"Excuse me, Mrs Holmes," John interjected-

"_Violet" _The older woman corrected.

"Yes, _Violet. _I'm afraid Sherlock doesn't appreciate the-"

Sherlock began to list of insults on his fingers _"Dull, boring, delusional-"_

"Fundamental building blocks of the universe-"

"_Pretentious, idiotic, foolhardy-"_

"As we normal people do-"

"_More Anderson's division-" _Molly stifled a laugh at that.

"Because he thinks it as a-"

"Tedious waste of time!" Sherlock finished before John could.

Violet held herself still for a moment, before pouting in the way her son's did and raising an eyebrow, she stood up muttering, "Sherlock I don't know what I'm going to do with you."

Sherlock had a cheeky retort on the verge of his lips but as the sound of footsteps approached it left. It was if in that very second something automatic had switched in his mind, and he suddenly sat up straight, head dipping slightly as his eyes focused forward. John tilted his head slightly, recognizing the sudden change. Mycroft did too, moving his new paper and moving his head towards the doorway expectantly. Violet looked at her youngest son normally, but just for a flash of a moment Molly saw a brief glimpse of something no length of absence could solve, a weight on their shoulders which could be the answer to a question Molly didn't even know. It was if, for that fraction of a moment, she was praying for Sherlock.

Under the table, Sherlock suddenly grabbed Molly's hand, causing the pathologist to nearly jump. The detective ran a finger over her knuckles to still her.

"How was your work, daddy?" Mycroft greeted calmly as a rather pompous man entered the kitchen. _The man from this morning,_ Molly thought, but she was distracted.

_Sherlock Holmes is holding my hand._

"Tedious." Omitted the ostentatious man as he turned to the other's, "Good morning." Replied the older man in a thick upper-class accent, like that of his wife's.

_Sherlock is holding my hand._

"Oh," Mycroft turned, "Daddy, this is Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

_Oh my God, he's not letting go. _

"Theodore Holmes" Grunted the man, extending an aged arm towards John, "It's a pleasure." A smile that felt a little forced fell upon the man's lips, and snobbery overcrowded his very essence.

_This cannot be happening. _

John smiled and shook the man's hand, shocked at how firm the grip was for a man his age and yet his brow still furrowed, Sherlock looked as if he'd blanked the whole goings-on around him within a fraction of a second and John didn't know why.

_This is so awkward. _

Mycroft continued, "And this is Doctor Molly Hooper, a Specialist Registrar at St Bartholomew's hospital."

Sherlock let go of Molly's hand instantly.

After a fleeting moment that distasteful grim smile reappeared on Theodore's face, he shook Molly's hand that Sherlock had just held- Sherlock watched them, his eyes focusing on the gesture with vehemence with a predatory exterior, but he tightened his upper lip and didn't say anything. John frowned, something was certainly wrong. "How do you do, Doctor Hooper" Theodore nodded. He looked up and stared at Mrs Holmes, continuing "I hope you will all join us in the Drawing Room later. Remember that formal dress is required."

"Of course." Replied John politely.

Sherlock looked over and glared.

"I must depart, of course. I'll meet you all again later." With a curt nod, Theodore Holmes turned on his heels and left the parlour, and Sherlock relaxed.

* * *

"Sherlock? Where. Are. My. Clothes?!" Called Molly exasperated running through the wardrobe in panic.

Sherlock himself sat on a plush settee in her room in a tail-suit and white shirt, John was sat next to him in the very same except with a gray shirt (even though Mycroft had bought that specific suit for John, with this holiday in mind. He claimed it was 'customary' he dressed 'to their standard').

Molly ran out in her night-clothes, and threw her hands up wildly, "No clothes! Not anywhere!"

The consulting detective chuckled a little, "They must have put your replacement clothes in the wrong room; you're not getting your own clothes back until you leave so Mycroft had them bring you some more attire for the occasion." Sherlock reasoned, "You could just go in that-"

"This is my nightie!" Molly scoffed.

"So?"

Sherlock looked innocent, "So?"

"Sherlock! No."

"Why?"

"It has a _cat_ on it!" It did, a printed version of a cartoon cat chasing a woolen ball in an embarrassing shade of pink.

"That'd put a spanner in the works wouldn't it?" His eyes glinted with suspicion, "Oh, I'd love to see their faces! They'd be _purrfect-"_

"Please, Sherlock." Sighed Molly, glowering at the detective. John watched the exchange with bemusement, since discovering that Sherlock had stayed with Molly for some time, he could see how natural they were around each other in this environment, it was as if they were family, or even a couple.

Her jaw dropped, "So where are they then?"

"_Your _clothes are being kept safely in storage on the second floor, however the clothes you're going to be wearing are…" He paused, "I'll check in John's room." Quick in his step, he vacated the room and Molly let out a dramatic sigh.

"Why can't I just be myself here? Why do we have to dress up like this?" She asked herself.

John looked up and sighed, "Trust me, Sherlock would rather be it the other way, I'm certain of it. He hates this sort of life, he told me did soon after I met him. It was too fixed, with too many limitations."

"Mmm" Molly mumbled absently.

The door swung open, and Sherlock stormed in. He was holding the suitcase the girl had dropped the night before. For a moment, he remained impassive and he just stared at John with huge eyes, finally formulating the words, "…Who gave you this?"

He dropped the suitcase in front of John's feet.

John swallowed, feeling like he was in trouble as he replied, "I don't know, she didn't give me her-"

"_She?"_

"Yeah, um… Teenager, average height, blonde" With every word he said Sherlock looked like he'd been punched, John continued, and Molly stared at the detective worriedly, "She, she wasn't English, however European. Actually, she said these things were yours, from when you-"

Sherlock blinked suddenly, stepping back, "Molly…" She turned to him, he was breathing quickly and he looked as if all his guards had been knocked, "Your, your clothes… They are in John's room, ah," He moved back a little towards the door, "Excuse me."

And then he was gone.

Molly and John were left in silence, unsure about what to do, too confused to continue with any action.

* * *

_**3pm**_

"Are you sure we should go to this, John?" Molly asked, fiddling with her hands a little, "Sherlock hasn't even come back."

It was time for all the guests to meet in the drawing-room for introductions and refreshments; John and Molly had both gotten ready appropriately, however Sherlock hadn't returned since that morning and they had no inclination as to where he had gone; they hadn't even had their tour of the home.

"You know Sherlock, he'll… Show up, I'm sure of it." John didn't sound certain of his own words as they entered the drawing-room they had been directed too, and the scene began to move quickly like the pinnacle of a dream.

The greetings were in full swing. Around forty people crowded within the moderate space all chatting and laughing exuberantly, exchanging hugs and cries of affection over glasses of port and vintage wine. The lights of the room glowed a deep orange, reflecting from the drinks as a symbol of acceptance for it's usage. The scent of bayberry and spices filled the air and fir branches draped from an Oakwood mantelpiece above a roaring fireplace. _God, it's boiling, and nearly everything is a God damn safety fire hazard._ Small children were being assisted by a nanny to put decorations up on a large, old-fashioned Christmas tree. The laughter and humble words increased every passing second, spilled with prodigality and simple warmth. Young women in long dresses weaved through stout men with moustaches, their tousled and most noticeably dark hair moving freely with them. A young gentleman sat at a black baby-grand piano, playing a swung version of _In the Bleak Midwinter _as a couple of the young women stood behind him in awe.

The Holmeses, the extended family, and the guests of status.

As one woman caught John's eye before giggling and joining her friends leaning over a bar, he remarked, "So… Sherlock has an extended family."

"Yeah," Murmured Molly, completely overwhelmed by everything. If she could list the top ten places out of her comfort zone, this would be one of them. Mousy pathologists didn't belong here. Thirty-four year old single Molly Hooper didn't belong here.

A few feet away she saw Mycroft as alluring as always sat with three older men, one of whom was his father over some tea-biscuits that the group of men devoured greedily discussing the fundamental elements that helped run the country in the government.

"John Watson!" Squealed a shrill voice as he suddenly hug tackled by a mess of black hair. The army doctor literally stumbled backwards and Molly shuffled awkwardly. As the woman lifted her head to John's she laughed and smirked sensually, "You look better in person than from the newspaper photos, much better."

"Erm, thanks." Replied John, unsure of whether that was a good thing or not.

He eyed the woman who still rested her hands on his waist confidently, and he enjoyed looking at her. She was tall and slim, with pale eyes that gazed at him with a polite reciprocal curiosity on her seemingly open face. Realizing her position, the woman released herself and let out a nervous laugh, "I've wanted to meet you for so long, you must forgive me for being so upfront. I'm Sherlock's cousin, Marie Holmes."

John smiled, Sherlock had mentioned her when Mycroft had visited at the flat with a sense of amusement. John knew that he didn't hate her like he did most of the others.

"I'm glad to meet you." John greeted with a chuckle, "You don't happen to know where Sherlock is, do you?"

"Oh," She smiled, "He's with Adelaide, trying desperately to deduce why she's here. Which was unfair, when I went up to him he didn't acknowledge me, it had been two years; I slapped him." A small grin graced her features, "I'm sure he'll be down any minute any way. Have you met her?"

"Who?"

"Adelaide."

John frowned, "…No."

"Well, she's lovely." Her light smile faded but the flame in her eye's didn't, she leaned over to John closely, murmuring, "Look at all of these people, John, I can't wait to hear what the scandals there are this time. Every single year there is something, and every year Sherlock points it out; to be fair I think this may why half of the guests show up. He's the best distraction from the social conventions with his talk of affairs between Earls and Butlers and the discreet boob jobs, or stolen paintings and pearls; The thing is with Sherlock is you either love him or hate him, and if you hate him you're much more in danger of" She swooned dramatically, _"The devilish deduction"_

It didn't surprise him that Sherlock was known for causing trouble in the past. These parties must have bored him and knowing Sherlock, deduction was his only release for that. Oh, the thought of the amount of trouble he could cause among the upper-classes was an amusing prospect.

A moment later said Sherlock appeared, with the young blonde woman by his side. "John, Molly… Marie." He greeted with a placid expression.

For a moment, the whole drawing room fell into a hushed silence. And the guests stared. The usual routine, as Sherlock knew it: Some stared with sympathy, some forced smiles, a majority of people turned away in fear of deduction by his icy tongue, some rolled their eyes at the ability he had and looked back at what they were doing before.

But the silence was longer this time, and more noticeable. As this happened Sherlock looked directly at Molly until it passed, she didn't know why but he stayed their until it was over.

The last time the Holmes' guests had seen Sherlock was before his death, a time in which they'd mourned and cried, but mostly turned a blind eye as the detective was remembered in life. For too many his death had bought peace of mind rather than mourning, and now it was if the trouble maker had returned, not Sherlock Holmes.

A 'Holmes' was a rich, obnoxious, spoilt, deluded person…. Sherlock wasn't this, he wasn't them.

The silence passed.

"John, Molly… I need a word with you both." He gestured to the teenager beside him, the one from the night before, who looked both terrified and trustworthy at the same time.

"O-Okay" Was Molly's reply, as he dragged them to an unoccupied corner of the room. Some people were still staring, and it took all of Sherlock's courage not to turn and deduce the crap out of them, that could come later if it had too.

"What's going on, Sherlock?" Asked John quickly and straight to the point. The detective sat them down on a wide footstool and let the girl take the plush chair next to him which he sat on the arm of, he looked reluctant, if anything, as if this was the one thing he didn't want to do.

"I'd like you to meet Adelaide," Explained Sherlock softly, it felt as if he were betraying his own ego- For God's sake! It was admitting to one of his life-long mistakes and he hated it, he didn't want his friends to judge him like his family already did. The young girl stared at him and nodded slightly in encouragement, willing him to continue.

Sherlock took a deep breath as he forced out the words "Adelaide is my daughter- Sort of."

The army doctor and the pathologist completely stilled, as their jaws simultaneously dropped open. Molly began to look confused and then sympathetic, whereas John's face dropped from confusion to anger.

How could he have not told them this?

John gritted his teeth as he reiterated Sherlock's words, "_Sort of?"_

"W-what do you mean, Sherlock?" Molly questioned, in a tone softer than the former.

Adelaide herself then took the initiative to continue, "Sherlock's my dad, but under the circumstances he had me in sixteen years ago was a huge scandal and could have bought down the whole Holmes family. Sherlock was… Unfit to be a parent; so they deported my mum and obviously me too. They listed my father as unknown, by law he has no parental right to me, not even a blood right… When Sherlock was destroying Moriaty's criminal network in Europe last year he tracked us down, and stayed with us for a while." She sighed and then smiled at him with the tiniest bit of affection that he looked albeit terrified to respond to, "Mrs Holmes invited me over for this party because she found out what had happened from Mycroft. We can't make it clear to anyone that we're related, there'd be an uproar…" She glanced at Sherlock then, "But I did so desperately want to see you again."

Sherlock let out a shallow breath, "Thank you."

Her eyebrows bounced a little, and then she looked around, "People are staring, I better move before they work out anything."

"Yes." Sherlock agreed.

Adelaide smirked at him, looked over at John and Molly again and then left them alone.

John looked stung. He drew in a sharp breath and then ran a hand through his hair. "A daughter-"

"John."

"She's your _daughter."_

"Keep your voice down."

"I need a drink." He stood up and abandoned Sherlock and Molly before they could protest.

Sherlock let out a disheveled breath as he watched John approaching the bar, and Molly edged closer. Her heart was racing, her mind was spinning with questions she was pretty certain she'd never get the answers too. But he was scared about it, this girl's presence- as confused as she was about it- had made him vulnerable, just like his father had done in the kitchen that morning not that he knew why. As close as they were, Molly found herself wondering why John never took the initiative to understand Sherlock's side of things.

Quietly, she reached out and brushed her hands over the side of his arms. "I know that you're terrified about being her," She began, "That you're worried about what we'll discover about you." His eyes raised to meet hers in a steady deduction, he seemed amazed, "But don't, no matter what happens we will understand... As long as you talk to us about it."

Sherlock swallowed, "Not now."

"Fine. Later?" She probed, feeling idiotic the moment the words had left her.

Sherlock blinked at how confident her words sounded, but her soft eyes stunted him. He looked away before he was drawn into them like a moth to a flame, "Later."

* * *

**11pm**

_"Tell me how you did it, Sherlock!"_

"No."

_"Please?" - "Why not?" - "Come on, Sherly!"_

"For God's sake…"

_"We'll love you forever!" – "Aunt Marion has asked all Summer!" – "Sherly, please?"_

"I'm not called Sherly."

_"You know you are!" – "Sherlock, come on" – "We'll shut up if you tell us."_

"I'm not idle gossip, excuse me." The consulting detective got to his feet and left the women behind who collapsed with exaggerated groans, not that he knew who they were anyway. Why was everyone so fixated on how he had faked his death? Couldn't they just accept his presence and move on? A child pointed at him as he walked past- Apparently not.

With a grim heart, Sherlock thought to himself that at least they had acknowledged his surviving. His father had most certainly not, and didn't seem like he wanted to; Sherlock had never suspected otherwise, but it still was an uninviting realization that his father wouldn't even acknowledge his presence after two years of being dead.

He felt an idiot for letting John stalk back to his room to process the news from earlier. The fact that Adelaide was here at the home for Christmas was a horrifying thing to take in because he'd never been alone with her before. In fact, including this day, this was only the third circumstance he had ever been with her in. He barely knew her mother up until last year, and even then had no proper interest in her, but he was proud of how Adelaide had turned out despite this. She was a good, honest child who had good intelligence and didn't take anything for granted. Sherlock wished he was more like her, it was a lot easier to be her than the mess he'd turned out to be.

Feeling rather the elephant in the room, he stepped to one side and began to do what he did every year he'd been at one of these parties, he began to deduce.

_Butler with depression, boring. Agatha the third has had a nose job and tattoo on her bottom and not told the family, pointless. Second cousin Phillip sleeping with the housekeeper, just off putting. Married first cousin Frederick has his eyes on Molly…_

_Has his eye on Molly._

_Molly who fixed him._

_Molly._

_Molly in the burgundy dress._

Sherlock gulped.

_The dress!_

_How had he not noticed that earlier?_

_It held her figure perfectly._

_And her hair was down. _

_First cousin Frederick will be having a field day._

_Married first cousin Frederick._

_Oh, Molly._

She was sat beside him on the piano stool, throwing her head back with laughter as he tried to show her how to play and she failed miserably. She looked happy, and she looked young. She looked beautiful. Sherlock felt himself like an idiot for not even regarding her appearance earlier. She had even worn heels and he knew how badly they bruised her feet. But through the simple way she was holding herself Sherlock knew she felt uncomfortable and had decided to drown her nerves with alcohol, for him.

She was trying to fit in for Sherlock's sake, and he felt a pang in his chest as he realized it. Molly never had to try to be someone around him, Molly was Molly, and that was the person who counted.

"I can't do it!" Molly laughed hysterically.

"Come on, it's easy" Frederick smiled, he reached out and took her right hand in his left and she flinched before relaxing into his touch; she let him direct her fingers on the piano until they played a soft melody.

"This melody is haunting." She commented sarkily.

"Ooh, yes. You'll be walking up Reginald the Holmes Ghost next." He replied cheekily.

Molly gasped at him, "There is a ghost here?"

"Of course. Every old stately home must have a family ghost, Doctor Hooper."

Remembering the night before and what she had thought walking through the dark mansion, she grinned, "My logic exactly."

The redheaded man grinned at her and subconsciously moved closer, continuing to try and play piano with her. God, she was flustered. Her fingers stumbled over the keys to no avail. It was just _so hot _in the room.

"Lost your wedding ring, have we Frederick?"

The pair both jumped and turned, and the latter's expression dropped completely. "Sherlock, I wondered where you were, lingering at the sidelines like Mr Gatsby."

He suddenly sounded cruel; Molly noticed and she moved away slightly.

"Oh, I've just kept myself occupied don't you worry." Sherlock sounded very sure of himself.

First cousin Frederick looked up disdainfully plastering a false grin on his face, "Of course… I'm sure you have."

"Doctor Hooper," Sherlock turned, "Would you care to accompany me to the study?"

_The study, much more my place to be. _Molly smiled a little, carefully moving from the piano stool much to Frederick's annoyance, "I'd love too."

"Good." Sherlock grinned, taking her arm. "I'll meet you by the door."

Molly paused briefly, searching his eyes before nodding and leaving the two men alone.

Sherlock watched as First Cousin Frederick slouched a little, charming exterior gone and drunk gambler image left. Sherlock tilted his head absently in thought, before speaking darkly, "Keep away from her. I think that two affairs, a mistress with a child on the way and a debt for an illegal drugs company is enough, don't you?"

He left abruptly, leaving the red-haired man to stop, take what he said in, and then hit the piano in frustration causing a brief clash of notes making some people briefly look over. He had just fallen trap to Sherlock's deductions. First-cousin Frederick concluded that he'd have to keep his head down for the next few days now Sherlock had the power to use this information against him.

The bastard.

Grinning childishly, Sherlock Holmes approached Molly who'd waited by the door as he'd asked. He took her arm in his and then left, not noticing that at that moment Theodore Holmes was pulling Adelaide aside, with vehemence in his old steel eyes.

* * *

In the study they talked for hours, losing track of time as it came and went in fleeting bursts of laughter and affection. Beside an old mahogany table sat a fat grandfather clock and it's pendulum swung from side to side over and over, the severe tallness of it making it seem was if the clock face itself was watching them with more power than they would ever know.

God knows how, but the pair had ended up sat on the floor with their backs pressed against a patched settee.

With the discussions, came the drinks too. The long discussion about the events after the fall, the talk about Molly's cat, Toby, the chat about John, and finally the chat about the reputation Sherlock had around his family, which by this point was when they had had a couple to many.

"Only a few people know about Adelaide. Only mummy, Marie and Mycroft knew she was coming. When father realizes it's Adelaide here and not a daughter of some Lady and Lord he may murder me, he'll think it's my doing; he'd never presume otherwise. He doesn't think I'm worthy of being a father so my name isn't on her birth certificate." Explained Sherlock, with a little slur, "Whenever she gets mentioned I claim I barely know her, it's… sad."

Molly sipped the drink in her hand gently, "You poor thing."

"It's alright, she's coped with it all so well so there's nothing I should worry about. She understands why I can't be close to her, and she's strong for not admitting how much it actually hurts her. …I wished I could be there for her more."

The pathologist bit her lip, moving a hand lazily to his shoulder, "Why can't you?"

Sherlock sighed, "Molly… I can't even remember 'conceiving' her."

Molly froze, "What?"

"…I was high at the time, and so was her mother. I don't remember what happened, I just remember us waking up naked together the next day and the deductions from then on were obvious. It was during a time when the world moved too fast for me, it was too colourful and loud. My mind couldn't bare it. If I had been given right's to this child, a child I didn't want then I could have easily been a danger. I used to get violent over pretty much anything if I was in need of a fix."

"You can't remember anything? T-then how can you be sure that-"

"Paternity test." Concluded the detective, who then yawned before continuing, "It's embarrassing, it's the only time I've ever been with anyone and I can't remember it."

He turned to her innocently.

Molly stilled, alarm bells went off. How much had he had to drink to tell her that? "Sherlock?"

"I don't want to discuss Adelaide, right now." Sherlock interjected, rolling his eyes, "Too much pretentious chatter when I'm so relaxed."

"That's okay," Molly breathed, "We can carry on tomorrow if you'd like."

"Excellent."

"Alright."

"Good." Sherlock froze in puzzlement before chuckling, "It's like… It's like we're arguing over who's going to finish the conversation. I always win. John, let's me win."

"I don't know, you may just be the superior one." Contradicted Molly with a smirk.

Sherlock blinked.

"You know," Molly continued, "The, uh… Alpha male?"

"Ah. Yes, very true. I am the alpha male in mine and John's relationship."

Sherlock looked at her with warmth in his eyes, before rolling on his back and staring up at the ceiling, murmuring, "…I know so much about so many people, Molly." He swallowed, "Do you know what that feels like? To _know _so much?"

In response Molly sipped more of her drink, "No, and that is what make's you special."

"You're special."

"How much have you drank, Sherlock?"

He gave her a smirk as if to say _you-don't-want-to-know. _

Molly bit her lip again. "You should probably get to bed."

"Am I making you uncomfortable? You're breathing's increased, as has your heart-rate." He pointed this out with a lame tiredness that didn't help at all.

Molly didn't reply.

Sherlock tried something else to gain her attention, he sat up and grinned, "I plan to play some games tomorrow, we're meant to go hunting in the woods. I want to teach you how to hold a rifle, my rifle."

Her mouth went dry._ Sherlock's rifle._ "Your rifle-"

"Yes. I want you to learn to hold my rifle."

_He wants me to hold his rifle. _

Molly swallowed. _Why does he have to sound so darn suggestive all the time? Damn 'rifle'._

"But… As I said I know so many things, I want to have some fun with the guests seeing as they don't bother to communicate with me."

"What do you mean fun?"

"Christmas fun, pranks… Make them feel as insufferably awkward as we can, make them do hilarious acts just through our reverse psychology. I do it every year, and you should join in this time."

A smirk began to form on Molly's lips, "Just because of their blind mistakes?"

"Exactly."

"And no one will get hurt?"

"Ideally."

"Good, I'll do it."

"I'm so glad you're here Molly..."

"...Good."

"And I can't wait to do pranks with you."

"Okay...?"

Sherlock stopped and leaned over grabbing her hands excitedly however his stance nearly failed on him and he leaned a little too far forward. "Let's misbehave, Molly Hooper."

He had entered her personal space, and it was only in that moment he realized that he had. Sherlock's eyes fell onto Molly's suddenly, locking them together and neither felt they could move. The air hitched in Molly's throat, Sherlock's pupils dilated. All of Molly's sense told her to move, he was drunk and reckless… But she was tipsy. Her foggy mind stopped her from moving or fighting back.

"Molly." Breathed Sherlock hoarsely, right from the back of his throat; he sounded practically lascivious.

Molly shivered as simultaneously without thinking they began to move into each other.

The door swung open, and light pooled in from the doorway. Molly moved away faster than a rocket, and Sherlock sat dumbfounded, trying to place together what exactly had just happened. Theodore Holmes stood in the doorway, his nose was wrinkled in disgust. Molly's stomach stopped.

Shit.

Carefully, Senior Holmes entered the study completely with his lips in a tight line. "Do excuse me Molly, the party has retired and I wish to speak to my son alone."

Sherlock looked up, and Molly watched the detective's expression falter. He looked like a child in trouble, and Molly didn't know why.

Theodore tilted his head at Molly and wrinkled his lips making his moustache seem wider as he waited for Molly's reply. She was torn; she knew she should stay and take his side, but there was a darkness in his father's expression that told her that he wasn't giving her any choice in the matter.

Molly raised to her feet quietly and left, wincing as Theodore shut the door behind her.

* * *

Later, she lay awake in bed, worrying about Sherlock. She worried about what Theodore had said to him. The seconds clicked by endlessly.

The floorboards creaked outside her room, and quietly she felt her latch being turned and someone entering. For a moment, she panicked, but she recognised the footsteps approaching her bed.

They were Sherlock's.

She laid there in silence as she heard clothes being removed and then finally her matress dipped as he climbed into the bed. Molly swallowed, it was the first time he'd slept in the same bed as her in over a year.

They were quiet for a moment and all they heard was each other's breathing. Softly, Sherlock spoke in a voice Molly hadn't since the fall either, it was the voice of him being completely broken up inside. "I've screwed up, Molly." He murmured, voice nearly breaking with pent up sorrow, "It wasn't fair of me to bring you here, I'm sorry."

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock didn't reply until the next morning.

* * *

_So this chapter ended on a much more serious note, sorry! It was more of a passing chapter, so all the drama and cheesy Christmas fluffiness shall let loose shortly! _

_Coming up we have awkward family dinners, an incident involving towels, terrible innuendos, overdue 'thank you's, arguments over a horse, childhood stories, and Molly learning to 'hold Sherlock's rifle'- Dear me, any suggestions- Leave them in the reviews! I'll try to work around you!_

_Many dances and ninja kicks,_

_Emily _


	3. Deducing Horses

_Once again, you guys! Thank you so much for the responses! Honestly, I am so thrilled you are enjoying this! __Now, let's continue, shall we? I hear Sherlolly Christmas the chiming bells becoming louder.;-)_

_By the way, if you weren't aware the Sherlock Series 3 minisode (prequel) "Many Happy Returns" is out today on iPlayer, I'm not too sure if this applies to people outside the UK, but I'm positive it'll be on youtube or somewhere. It's amazing, and if you haven't yet, go and watch it! So much character development for Anderson arghh!_

**Chapter 3: Deducing Horses**

* * *

"_He who has not Christmas in his heart will never find it under a tree."_

_-Roy L. Smith_

* * *

It was grotesquely warm. Drearily opening her eyes, Molly swallowed uneasily. Her throat was dry, her mind was foggy, and it ached; Molly grimaced. A shiver crept up her back despite the heat and as she winced against the morning light and the sound of Wrens chirruping on the ledge outside her window she let out a long drawn sigh because she knew what dark shadow was oppressing her: a hangover.

It had been nearly a whole year since she had last been like this; she had always been one of those people who'd opted for staying sober and then driving whoever she was with home later on. She hated getting in that vulnerable state, and she felt idiotic for doing it in the Holmes' household; but then, to be fair she hadn't been_ too_ bad, she remembered still having completely logical thought when she had gone to bed, but she wasn't as sure about Sherlock, the man had drunk a lot more than she had, as if the pressure of being with his family had undone him, making him react radically without much thought.

_Sherlock's eyes fell onto Molly's suddenly, locking them together and neither felt they could move. The air hitched in Molly's throat, Sherlock's pupils dilated. All of Molly's sense told her to move, he was drunk and reckless… But she was tipsy. Her foggy mind stopped her from moving or fighting back. _

"_Molly." Breathed Sherlock hoarsely, right from the back of his throat; he sounded lascivious._

Thinking about Sherlock bought her attention to the weight behind her, the object that was to blame for making her so unpleasantly warm.

Sherlock Holmes.

He had embraced her with one arm from behind and his right leg over her own; his head was breathing warm sultry air onto her neck. Molly gasped inwardly, and tried to calm herself down.

He had never gotten this close to her. Not even after the fall, and that had been awkward in itself.

It was like they were _spooning _but worse, it seemed overnight they had managed to merge their bodies into one big heap and he was half laid on top of her because whilst she was laid on her back, he lay on his side but leaning dramatically over her body. She cursed her hung-over mind for not noticing it for what she figured had been about three minutes.

His messy curls pressed against the side of her face as his head laid downwards towards her neck.

_His breathing on my neck, oh my God. _

If Molly had considered many things that could have happened on the morning of the 23rd of December, this wouldn't have been one of them. Bloody hell, she'd need a mild sedative to calm down.

Turning her head as gently as she could, she stole a glance at the detective to fully understand the predicament she was in, and internally screamed.

_Sherlock Holmes is topless._

_He's actually lying on me topless._

_...At least he is compensating for the heat._

_I'm wearing woolen pajamas and Sherlock Holmes is lying on me topless._

_Is he even wearing trousers? _

_I can't feel any trousers. _

_Please God don't let him be naked. _

_Oh God._

_What if he's naked?_

_I should have opted for one of the velvet night dresses._

_That would have been nicer._

_Less fabric._

_Molly, stop._

Gulping dramatically, she tried to move away without waking him- not that it ever worked- Sherlock was a light sleeper. It was just too hot, and she could barely handle it. She wanted him to wake up at a safe distance from her, so it wouldn't be awkward if he didn't know. She closed her eyes as she wriggled away from his body, deep down knowing that it was the opposite of what she wanted to be doing.

She was just about to reach a safer radius of her pillow when the familiar deep baritone rang throughout the room.

"I was comfy."

Had he been awake that entire time? She pouted a little and blushed, her foggy mind struggling to form any coherent thoughts at all. "Y-you're topless." She managed.

Although she wasn't looking, she knew he rolled his eyes. "It was compensating for the heat, this quilt is made from feather's, you know. With our body heat it was bound to get rather boiling." He eyed her choice of nightwear mischievously, knowing that his decision to go topless was the better one.

_My logic exactly, _Molly thought as she turned around again. His eyes were studying her with an analytical purpose and she sagged a little. It was too early to suffer from his deductions. Sherlock wrinkled his nose a little before bringing a hand to his temple and massaging it, "I can't think straight, what is this?"

Molly smirked knowingly, "Well, I'd call it a Christmas miracle if you _weren't _hung over, Sherlock."

He stared at her impassively. "Hangovers. Dull." With a huff, the Great Sherlock Holmes rolled completely onto his front and stuffed his face into the pillow.

"Sherlock, get up."

He twisted his head sardonically to face her; it looked like a terrible place from where Molly was stood; lying flat on his front with his face turned sideways. Sherlock lamented, "I hate sleep, the more sleep I have the more lethargic I become, and then the more sleep I need. It's a never ending circle."

"I know, isn't it tedious?" Contradicted Molly in a tone of voice that reflected Sherlock's own. A small grin formed on his lips, one of those rare smiled that only a few people in Sherlock's circles would ever see; it was an expression as if they were truly appreciated.

Molly smiled back at him lightly before she pushed herself completely from the bed, _9:17am- _They were late for breakfast. Sherlock rolled back onto his back and stared absently at Molly as she walked into the ensuite and returned with two small glasses of water and a box of dispersible paracetamol. She perched on the side of the bed she had done before, and began to open the packets on the bedside table.

Sherlock creased his brow in thought, "Did anything happen between us last night Molly- As in intimately? I'm having trouble placing it together."

She froze, she literally froze. How could he ask something like that so casual and upfront? Not daring to look over she returned to opening the paracetamol box. "…What do you remember?"

"I remember being in the study with you, drinking… Talking to _father,_" He paused for a moment, "And then all I remember is feeling it was perfectly acceptable for me to come into bed with you, so I did just that and you didn't push me away."

"Nothing happened in the study, we just talked. And nothing happened in this room either, you just got into bed and slept." Omitted Molly numbly, scolding her natural reaction. The words- _except you nearly kissed me in your father's study_- begged to fall from her lips but then stayed put as if a lump in her throat had formed. She changed the subject, "You were upset when you came in, I'd never turn you away."

She looked over then, and Sherlock was listening with his brow creased. With a slight hesitation, he asked "Did I tell you what father spoke to me about?"

"No," She replied softly, "But you looked pretty cut up about it."

Nifty she dropped one tablet each into the water and watched as it dissolved, "Sit up." She told him softly and he complied; it reminded her of when she had treated him, she felt like he was her patient again. Passing him the glass, she probed on a little, "Were you going to tell me?"

He sighed, "Not if I can help it, although you'll probably find out yourself. I bet you my father has made some ridiculous assumptions already and told the entire family, he can never keep his opinions to himself."

At the ice in his tone, Molly recoiled a little, "Assumptions about what?"

He frowned, "My death, Adelaide" Molly blinked at him, "Oh, he realized who she was, and you. He has no logical thought in that foul mind of his. Always judging and lashing out before understanding."

Molly frowned at his phrasing of _lashing out _as she passed him his water and took a big gulp from her own. Her eyes focused sadly on her cup as she admitted sullenly "I wish you would tell me what he said."

"It'd only upset you," He admitted softer than before, gauging her quiet tone of voice, "And there's no point when there's no logic in his words at all. The sooner he's dead and gone the better." He began to drink from his cup.

Molly blanched and nearly choked on the water, "You'd really say that about your own father? Sherlock-"

"Don't contradict me about something you don't understand." He retorted quickly, his eyes warning; Molly knew she was crossing into the wrong territory. Seeing the flash of panic on her face, Sherlock's expression softened quickly as did his tone, he didn't want to hurt her "Please Molly… It's best you leave it be."

She gave him a small nod and turned her attention back to the drink, stunned.

Someone knocked on the door outside.

"Come in" Called Molly in a natural response before freezing completely. _No, no, no no-_

Dressed in outdoor clothes, John trudged into the room, "Sherlock's not in his room and I was wondering if you-" His eyes settled on the pair on the bed and his eyes widened, "-Oh."

"It's not what it looks like." Sherlock told him quickly, handing Molly the glass back and sliding out of bed. John's brow dropped as Sherlock stood up in his full topless- and boxers, Molly couldn't help but notice- glory. He shot a look towards Molly.

"What's going on?" John asked forcibly.

Sherlock winced, "Oh, not so loud. Hangover."

"Sherlock?"

"I got a bit carried away last night," Sherlock lied quickly, avoiding Molly's eyes, "Seeing everyone got irritating as did your absence..." John looked guilty at that, "So I drank, I threw up in my room. I stayed with Molly so she could look after me over night," He turned to Molly then and smiled, "And she did a fine job, thank you."

Molly blinked, raising her eyebrows a little before replying innocently, "You're welcome."

John stood pensively for a moment and then sighed in acceptance, "I'll take your word for it. …I wanted to apologize for last night, for storming off, I shouldn't have- I should have stayed and listened to you."

"And I should have told you about Adelaide earlier… I wasn't expecting her to be here, by law I'm not meant to see her at all; telling you would have just confused things." John gave a small shrug, "But I am sorry for keeping it from you, it's just that I never told anyone who wasn't involved, not one person. Unless someone bought her up it just never crossed my mind as something I wanted to talk about because I'm so ashamed of it."

"You're ashamed because you're a dad?" John looked worried.

"No John, I'm ashamed because I can't raise her or look after her like a normal one."

"Good morning!" Called a cheerful voice as footsteps barreled into the room. Molly sighed, it was so loud and her head was pounding.

_Why are there so many people in the room?- Her bedroom!_

Marie Holmes accompanied by Mycroft both entered in their outdoor gear. Mycroft frowned at how exposed Sherlock was as Marie laughed tightening her ponytail behind her head exposing her drawn out cheekbones, like Sherlock's. "I was wondering why you didn't come down first thing," Began Mycroft snidely, "I didn't realise _this _was why." He gestured towards Molly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Don't make judgements because I'm about ninety-eight present sure you'll get the wrong idea."

"Ah, see Sherlock that's why you're wrong. I heard about your little 'chat' with daddy last night-"

Sherlock tightened up, "I'm not discussing this with you now."

"Of course not." Concluded Mycroft, before glancing towards Molly again who was biting her lip wanting something to preoccupy herself with. Mycroft straightened up, "Any whom, we are going hunting within the hour. I suggest you get dressed."

Sherlock pouted, "I know, Mycroft; no need to reiterate the schedule that_ I_ memorized and_ you_ put in your Google calendar."

Mycroft sniggered, "So be it, just be ready at ten fifteen in the foyer, will you?"

"Of course."

"Thank you." With a curt nod, he left.

Marie laughed with a sultry grin, "Don't worry about him, I'll feed him some mince pies and then he'll stop being a patronising dick."

Sherlock chuckled sardonically with his cousin, quite possibly the only family member he got on properly with. "As always, so proper in voice Marie Holmes."

She grinned at him as her pale blue eyes glinted furiously as she reiterated feisty "As always." Before she left again, black hair flowing down her back.

John watched her leave, and followed after her slim form calling, "She's showing me around the grounds!" As he did.

"He likes her." Concluded Sherlock with a frown once they'd gone.

"Who wouldn't?" Molly asked with a smirk before correcting herself "Uh, I mean she's really pretty."

Sherlock frowned and stared at Molly as if she had broken a commandment. Baffled, he wrinkled his face. "Marie? _Pretty?"_

"…Yes."

He tilted his head curiously, "I suppose, if your mind _leans _that way… She's my cousin. _She _looks like me except with longer hair and moderately sized breasts. And you think she's pretty?" Sherlock turned to Molly with confusion on his face, and she blushed realizing what position he'd put her in. The bastard.

"I…I-"

Sherlock turned his nose up a little and Molly shuffled awkwardly, she couldn't find the words. Under his burning stare the hangover felt worse. What did he expect her to say as he stood in front of her with morning hair in only boxer shorts? _Oh Sherlock, that is because you are attractive too!_ "We should get ready" She told him quietly.

After a beat of confusion, the detective replied politely,"…Yes, quite. I'll head to my room and change." He paced to the doorway, "I'll meet you in the corridor at five minutes past the hour?"

"Five minutes past the hour." She agreed.

Sherlock smirked, and then left.

* * *

"I'm taking this horse." Proclaimed Sherlock,

"You're bloody well not taking this horse, I own it."

"And so do I; It's a _family _horse!"

"Just because you no longer have a horse."

"My horse died, but the family one's didn't. I'm taking her."

"The other one is lame."

"Clearly more appropriate for you then, dear brother."

"Sherlock. You haven't even ridden her before, you don't know-"

"You don't think I can deduce it?"

"…You can deduce _horses _now."

"I've always been able to. Simple minds, easier to work-"

"For God's sake-"

"I'll prove it to you." Huffed Sherlock smugly.

"Don't provoke him, Mycroft!" Marie laughed openly sat upon her own one.

"Come on, Mycroft. You can ride side-saddle with Molly. She doesn't know how to ride. Just _look _at her."

Molly whipped her head from the horse she sat on with insecure wide eyes.

Mycroft glowered, "Fine." He handed Sherlock his finest horse reigns as he hissed, "But if she canters over the hills and far away with you trailing behind gripping on her tail, don't blame me."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and began to prepare his horse as Mycroft dawdled over to Molly and joined on the front so he could handle the horse as she held onto him.

It was drizzling on the Holmes' estate. As traditional for their family gatherings, a majority of the guests actually stayed at residences in the nearby village, and would return next on Christmas day and again on Boxing Day. The 23rd and Christmas Eve were dedicated to close family only, so not many of them were about. Nearby Mr and Mrs Holmes did their daily walk in rain coats, muttering about the cruel things in life the upper class had to suffer through.

"I'm sorry, everyone!" Said an approaching voice. A stout man appeared from the stables with a thick mop of brown hair and tired green eyes, "You can't take them out today. There's ice up at the top, and it might snow."

"It _might_ snow, Mr Tomlinson?" Contradicted Sherlock.

"Yes, you'll have to take the walk, I'm afraid."

With a dejected moan, Marie was the first to dismount from her horse, and the other's following muttering complaints to each other as they did. John approached Sherlock, but the latter disappeared quickly, stopping Mycroft from helping Molly of the horse and doing it himself, holding her securely as he eased her down to the ground.

Molly sighed, "I really wanted to ride them, Sherlock. I've always wanted to and I never have done."

Sherlock stared at her impassively, before subconsciously rubbing her shoulder, "We'll try again on boxing day."

"Right, let's go!" John shouted as the group began to depart into the woods.

Mycroft led the way with Molly and John by his side, as Sherlock and Marie trailed behind. They began to head through shrubbery into a deeper forest with four guns between the five of them. It was a very traditional sport to do, but to Molly's horror she was the only one of the ensemble who didn't have a gun license or training. Mycroft had joked that he wouldn't tell the government that she'd joined in as long as she was completely aided to not be a safety hazard, although she would have been rather happy not taking part at all; she despised guns. After treating corpses in the morgue with the most terrible gun-shot wounds, it unsettled her that the same fate was now going to befall bypassing birds and small creatures.

"You never fail to surprise me, Sherlock." Marie mused wonderingly, securing her backpack comfortably on her back.

Sherlock didn't turn to look at her and frowned a little as they followed a good few feet behind the other's, "Why?"

"Well you came here with that woman, Molly. I never thought for a moment she was your girlfriend-"

"Girlfriend?" he turned to stare at his cousin in misunderstanding, "She's not my girlfriend."

Marie Holmes knitted her defined brow, "…But you were in her room in just underwear this morning."

"That doesn't constitute that we are together."

"Oh?" She queried. A small smug grin formed on her face and she shrugged flirtatiously, "Alright. I see, it's _that _sort of relationship."

"Don't be ludicrous." Sherlock refuted, before adding half-heartedly, "I'd never do that."

"Wouldn't you? See, I never know with you… One moment your dead, the next your living; one moment the world thinks you're in a relationship with John Watson and the next you're retiring to bed with Molly Hooper? I can barely keep track of you any more, it's like I barely know you. You barely ever contact me, and all this time you haven't asked how I've been either, or how my own children are. They were at the party yesterday you know but Dan's took them up to stay in the village until Christmas?"

"Oh." Sherlock belated a little, he hadn't even noticed that but decided not to linger upon it. "I'm dreadfully sorry."

"So you should be." Marie's response was playful, but there was hurt in her eyes. Sherlock sometimes forgot how much she cared for him compared to the rest of his family. Equated to John and the rest of his _real family, _as he called them, Marie Holmes was his best friend and had been since childhood.

"I'll try and keep more thorough contact with you" Sherlock told her and meant it; she agreed with a soft smile.

After a moment of comfortable silence, Marie engrossed in gossip the words falling of her tongue like feathers. "So, Sherly-" Sherlock shuddered at one of the families' famous pet names for him from their childhood, "What_ is_ the situation between you and Molly Hooper?" She raised an eyebrow curiously.

"She's my pathologist at St Bart's. She helped me fake my death." Marie rolled her eyes saying _I-knew-that-bit, _Sherlock continued, "…I want to thank her for helping me in more ways than she knows, and I'm trying to work out the best way how."

His eyes had focused on Molly as he had said the words. She had dressed in a red checkered shirt and denim skinny jeans with walking boots; they suited her well. Like in Bart's, she had her hair pulled in a simple ponytail at the side and it made a small smile touch Sherlock's lips: She looked adorable. He felt pathetic for making such a sentimental deduction.

"Thank her in what way?" Marie prompted, arching her brow in curiosity, "Romantically? As a friend?"

Sherlock hesitated. Again, this was bordering territory he was very scared of crossing.

"Come on," Marie breathed softly, looking at Sherlock's eyes which were practically the same as her own, "Tell me, be honest. You know me of all people won't tell anyone."

The consulting detective let out a small breath. Knowing that if he was going to admit anything personal to anyone, it'd be her; Marie Holmes knew him better than John and Molly did, she'd watched him develop and evolve and deduce, and she knew why. Quietly, he admitted "…I'm not sure. The fall changed things, lots of things. I see everything differently. Before I would never consider any attachment, even friendship was a push- But… It's like Molly is pushing all my boundaries and I can't fathom why." His eyes fell a little.

"I knew something was different the moment I saw you."

"How?"

She gave him a self-assured nod, "You just appeared more involved with the world rather than completely detached when I saw you, it was as if you were going to accept social interaction-"

"I'm never going to accept social interaction-"

"But see, I only saw this when you were with Molly and John. They bring out the goodness in you that I think only I of most people have seen before. You are a good man, and it looked like you were finally willing to show it, for both John and Molly." Sherlock listened to her intently, he had forgotten how knowledgeable his cousin was, "But then though during the party yesterday I noticed something else. The touches, every so often you'd brush Molly's arm as a gesture, or her hand, or even her leg, and you stared at her with such warmth and I've never seen you look at anyone like that." She looked proud, "You, Sherlock Holmes, are beginning to accept physical contact and affection-"

"I'm not-"

"So then explain to me why you slept in her bed last night?" She pinpointed a firm glance at him.

Sherlock paused, utterly stumped. He hadn't thought of it like that.

"Sherlock I know you're afraid of commitment, and I know why you are too." The said man blinked with vulnerability and he continued to look at Molly as they walked, "But I know you can and would change, for her. And because of the great man she brings out into the open from you, it'd be terrible if you didn't even consider the option that she may be the single most trustworthy woman in your life to guide you through that."

Sherlock Holmes glanced at her and a look of timidity fell upon his face, "But what if Molly doesn't want that?"

Marie Holmes snorted at her cousin and dismissed the notion with a wave of her arm, "Don't be daft, she's crazy about you. You don't need to be the world's only consulting detective to see that."

"Really?"

"Deduce for yourself, Sherly." Marie teased as she winked at him. Sherlock gave her the dead eye in response and she stuck her tongue out. They both shared a laugh like they had done in their childhood, making them feel much younger within an instant.

* * *

At the front of the group, Mycroft, John and Molly had also found themselves discussing Sherlock but in a whole different light. "Sherlock can be pitiful sometimes," Mycroft told them sadly, "Daddy brings out the vulnerable side of him and no one can do anything about it. It'd take a powerful psychologist to work it out completely, or even attempt to change it. Even then, I predict he'd be too stubborn to change. When he was fifteen I called one in undercover, but Sherlock instantly deduced his job and then never forgave me for trying; he said that if he did say anything about his earlier life then daddy would have gone 'bad again'" Mycroft pouted his lips a little.

John swallowed, "Why? Are you saying he's been scarred? As a child... Was he harmed?"

"Completely." The former confirmed knowingly.

Molly shuffled a little, "Why? What happened to him?" He hesitated, "W-what happened between him and Theodore when he was younger?"

Mycroft sighed, debilitated, "I wish I could tell you in detail, but I can't. I was away at boarding school when it all happened. Sherlock is seven years younger than me so our educational paths never crossed. All I know is, when Sherlock was six and being educated at home and I went away, that when I came back he was deducing- or trying to deduce, everyone- He wasn't born with it, he made himself master it. It was his only way of… Protecting himself."

"Why?" John asked after a beat.

"Daddy went through a phase of drinking after mummy had an affair. He got violent upon occasion and let it out on the most vulnerable person in the house at the time, which was unfortunately ...Sherlock."

"Dear God-"

"My guess is that Sherlock thought that nearly everyone was a danger because of the way daddy used to treat him; so tried to read them as if to gain control, just to make sure they wouldn't hurt him. It was as if he'd blown a defensive bubble around himself. Eventually daddy got better but Sherlock never forgave him, and daddy always has had the idea that his drinking problem and violence was all Sherlock's fault in the first place, so they've never been on terms with each other throughout all of his childhood then on until now."

John and Molly exchanged a worried look.

Mycroft continued, "As his… _friends, _it's probably best you know. I shan't go into any details, but what I will say is, and what I've always known is that what makes him great is in fact his biggest weakness, and you must recognize when he is weak and help him. When he went to University we didn't, and it got too much, he turned to drugs just to help calm down his mind and deductions. As I said, pitiful. Now that he's back from the dead I don't want him to lose control again; he nearly did after the fall, very nearly; but you delivered him from that Molly." He glanced at her and she blinked in surprise. Mycroft looked up imperially with a raised brow adding, "We're reaching the clearing, we should end this talk before he hears us, don't you think?"

John and Molly both gave a small nod. For the briefest moment Molly turned around wishing to ease her heavy heart and her eyes settled upon Sherlock and his cousin, they were both laughing and had wide smiles upon their faces. Noticing her impassive stare, Sherlock looked up, met her eyes, and smiled. Molly returned it and looked away, not noticing as Sherlock's faltered as he knew something was wrong just with one glance.

* * *

Reaching the clearing the group assembled around some damp grass. Marie niftily removed the bag on her back and knelt to unload it revealing four shot guns and packs of _12 and 20 bore _bullets. The group, exempting Molly began to assemble themselves as she stood pensively behind them. She noticed now oddly content John looked as he did this, as if going out with the intention of shooting bought him peace.

"We're doing rough shooting today," Mycroft explained, "We'll walk for a while and then separate, arranging a meeting point for the end of the game. We all must take a bag," As he said this he reached for them and began to hand them out, "And put the shootings in there. When we meet we shall count how many each person caught and proclaim our champion."

"There's no point," Interjected Marie with a chuckle, "You know Sherlock always wins."

The said detective grinned at that and Molly stared at him in shock. "Oh, I don't know," He began, "Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers here has good aim, I remember. Although that isn't strictly applying to birds."

The pair shared a look and a grin as if exchanging a rare memory.

"Quite." Mycroft omitted pensively, raising back to his feet, "Let's tally on."

* * *

About an hour later, the game was in full swing. The group had split up now in the woods and had been like this for almost an hour. They had but fifteen minutes until they'd meet again in the same clearing from earlier and count their findings. Marie and Mycroft had seemed to depart together although they were working as individuals, with John opting to work independently on this task falling into complete 'soldier on a stake out' mode. So Molly had been left with Sherlock, trotting behind him as he shot the animals- all the time- without missing once. He barely had to spend time looking before the shot rang out successfully, Molly was astounded by how skilled he was at it.

Around them the air was getting crisper and the ground was becoming colder.

"I'll be snowing within the hour," Sherlock called over his shoulder, bending down to put a pheasant into his bag without grace, "You can smell it in the air."

Molly frowned, "You can _smell _it?"

He nodded triumphantly and they continued to stalk in silence; they were both preoccupied with each other in their thoughts. Molly was trying to process what Mycroft had said earlier and was failing to do so; she could never imagine Sherlock being so weak and reserved, but then again it explained so much. The very fact that he dismissed any notion of love from _anybody _could be explained if he had been neglected in his early childhood. It broke her heart because she realized that his backwards way of thinking was no longer 'how he thought', it was now how he'd been raised, and she knew that it was probably going to be impossible to alter that.

As soon as he began to show affection he panicked and ran away from it, she knew that he did. He needed to see that it was nothing to be scared of.

Sherlock was stuck in a similar thought process, but it made his whole stomach twist. What Marie had said to him about Molly had made an impact, but when he considered being so open from Molly it was like his uncontrollable reaction was to stop. Caring was not an advantage, and he hated how attached he'd gotten to Molly. Realizing how much he needed her terrified him, realizing how much she wanted him scared him more; last night he had considered telling her how he felt, but his father had certainly put him in his place about that.

He wasn't worth it.

He wasn't worth her, but he didn't have to tell her that.

Shooting a starling effortlessly and retrieving it, Sherlock looked over at the pathologist and smiled a little, "Would you like a go?"

Molly halted, "N-no, I'm alright."

He frowned, "Are you sure? Just one, come on-"

Hesitating a little, she shook her head, "I'm alright, thank you Sherlock."

The detective rolled his eyes and strolled over to her, murmuring "Don't lie to me, Molly Hooper. I'll help you."

There was warmth in his eyes, and it made her smile uncontrollably. Sherlock took that smile as a sign of defeat and then strode completely so he was stood behind her. Wrapping his arms over hers he held the shotgun in front of her. Molly's breath instantly began to quicken at the near he'd reached her with and she shivered. "You're cold, Molly. Here."

He slipped out of his belstaff and to Molly's shock took the gun of her, slipped her ams into the coat, engulfing her even more so in his scent and warmth then before, and then returned the gun to her. "A-aren't you going to get cold?" She breathed, sinking her hands out of the sleeves that were far too long. The coat could have been a witch's robe with how long it was on her.

"Temperature doesn't bother me. It's fine."

"O-Okay."

Sherlock moved swiftly behind her like before.

"Go on," He instructed softly, his breath ghosting the top of her head, "Take the gun of me."

Slowly, she responded to his request but realized her hands were trembling slightly. "Don't worry," He assured, "I've put the safety on."

She settled her hands around the offending object sensitively, as if she were too afraid to hold it properly. Sherlock watched her at tentatively, and then gently and hesitantly moved his hands over hers, maneuvering each of her fingers so they were in the right place securely. He was driving Molly crazy. "There you go." He told her after a beat, "Now," He switched the safety off and watched her instantly panic but he steadied her again, "Let's see if we can shoot anything, I'll hold you steady."

Molly wasn't even looking for an animal like he was, her eyes were focused on the gun and her thoughts were focused on the man behind her. It reminded her of this morning but worse now because it wasn't just how they'd ended up overnight, this was a conscious decision he'd made. Sherlock had consciously decided to go this close to her and it was terrifying, for both.

_BANG_

Molly yelped as Sherlock spun her around and released the trigger under her palm forcefully into the air. There was a moment's silence, before a satisfactory _thud_was heard on the ground a few feet away, Molly recoiled.

Grinning Sherlock span around to face her, taking the gun from her hands and switching the safety on; she was gaping at him, unable to process that she'd just shot an animal. She'd just _killed _an innocent animal. "Well done, Molly Hooper."

Then he did the unexpected, he kissed her on the cheek triumphantly and then jogged off to retrieve what they'd hunted.

His smile dropped as soon as he turned around.

_What the hell have you done, Sherlock! _He scolded himself.

He couldn't believe it.

He'd just subconsciously kissed Molly Hooper's cheek.

_Subconsciously. _

_Hell, Marie was right._

_Damn her._

Muttering curse words under his breath the detective bent down and retrieved the pheasant Molly had shot. When he turned around again, he actually gasped. Molly was crying.

Without thinking he ran back over to her and began to deduce. He managed a small lament, "Molly if you really didn't want to do it then…"

"You do it so easily, you kill so easily." She began to sob helplessly in the cold. Sherlock was paralyzed, he had no idea what to do. "How… how can you-"

"Molly I don't know what you're thinking, but I've never killed anyone. Not a human, never."

"But-"

"Believe me, unless it was to protect someone I love I wouldn't, I couldn't. I'd never." He sighed, "Even through everything I've done, I've never self-handedly killed anyone. I may have caused their deaths, but I never pulled the trigger myself."

Molly still sobbed, running a hand under her eyes. There was something else. Sherlock focused her in a frantic deduction, and then stood back. "Mycroft spoke to you, didn't he?"

Molly sniffed.

"Tell me what he told you."

"H-He implied… That your father, he used to-"

Sherlock growled and then wrapped Molly in his arms, knowing. Of course Mycroft had told her, of _course _he had. If only he had had the courtesy to ask him first. Sherlock held Molly tight and she shook helplessly in the fabric of his belstaff.

"It was a long time ago, Molly." He began to explain, however it felt like the most painful thing he had to say in years, "They sent him into rehabilitation and he got better, he's never laid a hand on me since."

"That doesn't change anything for you though, does it!" She exclaimed, "You deduce, you judge, you work so much about people so quickly just because you are paranoid, you think everyone is going to hurt you if you let them into your heart and they won't, not most of the time." With hesitation she added, "I won't."

Sherlock was staring at her in horror.

"You haven't forgiven your father, you still think of him as an animal. You said yourself you'd rather him be dead! And-"

"Molly…"

"I know he still hurts you, and I know you're terrified of him. For God's sake when we first saw him you held my hand as if I was the only thing that would keep you safe. You cannot let this… This _man _stop you from being you, from being human, from being good-"

"Please, Molly-"

"I can't sit by and watch you beat yourself up and lock your emotions away over something that wasn't your fault. I can't. I won't." A bubble had built up inside Molly and suddenly it was all pouring out, "You can't be afraid of the human inside of you because of him, you can't. I know I don't know the details but- The Sherlock Holmes I love is human. Thoroughly human, and I'll accept all your deductions and premises as long as I understand you. But you have to show me you understand it yourself, and don't hide in your father's shadow any longer. I don't allow it."- Molly stopped, all the words and ramblings caught in her throat in that instant that she processed what exactly had fallen from her lips. It took a while to realize, but as soon as she did it felt as if a million land mines had exploded at once.

_The Sherlock Holmes I love._

_I love._

_I love Sherlock Holmes. _

_And now he knows. _

The silence that carried on went on for ages; they both just stood in silence. A few white snowflakes began to settle on Sherlock's mop of curls but he didn't react, neither did Molly. It was a confession she hadn't even realized she'd been capable of.

She didn't know what had elicited the outpour, but deep down she knew it had built up for a long time and she just needed the gun to trigger it for her.

Sherlock tightened his upper lip forcibly and lowered his brow, refusing to make eye contact. "Y-you…"

His voice wavered with desperate emotion.

Molly regretted what she said instantly. She'd gone far. Too far!

She swallowed, "I'm s-sorry."

Slowly, Sherlock took a deep breath and began to mumble. Molly swore she'd never heard him speak so quietly before, "Caring is a disadvantage. I… I can't. No."

It felt like she had been shot. She had to tread her steps carefully, because she knew she had unnerved him.

"You care, Sherlock, you do." She stopped to wipe the tears from under her eyes that threatened to freeze with the snow that began to pool around them, "Just enough that it hurts you. Why can't you see the benefits? So many of us care for you, and if you'd just try to let us in- If you were logical enough to- Perhaps you'd realize just how much love you're actually capable of."

He was speechless. His arms fell down limply to his sides and the gun fell from his hands into the sodden grass. He stared down at the ground blankly, his arms letting out the smallest tremors. Robotically, he breathed, "We have to get back to the other's." And he began to walk away.

Molly stared hopelessly after him, picked up the shotgun and then followed; having to hold up his coat from brushing the ground as she did.

* * *

Sherlock didn't say a word the whole way back.

He merely grunted when he'd been told he'd won, again.

He'd glowered as the group gushed over the snow.

He didn't show up for afternoon tea.

And he didn't show up when John and Molly decided to roam the grounds. John asked her if anything had happened, and she dismissed him saying he'd been in a weird mood the time they'd been hunting, she suggested that he might have heard what Mycroft had said to them earlier and was angry about it. And to be fair, that wasn't a complete lie.

Later, he didn't show up for dinner, and people were getting suspicious.

It was the late evening when Molly said she was retiring to bed early as the Holmes' as John settled in to watch a Christmas film, Marie and John sitting rather closely together. Mycroft sat with a mince-pie by his mother's side. Theodore Holmes retired to his study, claiming that films like that were too tedious to sit through. John asked where Adelaide was (she hadn't gone hunting because of her age), and Violet Holmes informed him that she was with Sherlock in the music room.

So that's where Molly went.

If she hadn't gone wandering the grounds with John earlier, she'd have had no idea where to go but thankfully now she remembered. She pressed up to the third floor of the mansion, a floor of which most of the rooms were older and locked. However only a couple remained open, and the music room was one of them.

As she proceeded down a dimly lit golden corridor, she began to hear a soft melody echoing through the walls. Molly knew the piece from her childhood, her dad had used to play it her to help her to sleep. A small smile traced her lips, she hadn't heard it in years.

_Ly cygne (The Swan) by Camille Saint-Saëns._

She approached the music room softly, noticing that the door was slightly ajar. Molly peered in tentatively and then leant on the doorway, visibly relaxing at the song.

What she hadn't expected though, was Sherlock to be sat on a grand piano; she'd heard a string instrument and assumed that to be him but she'd been mistaken. She'd never known that he knew how to play before. About two feet away Adelaide sat on cello, and they both played ceremoniously together as if it was completely natural.

The music room itself was built with pale wooden floorboards and barely any objects to promote the sound's clarity. On the right-hand side a large window faced outward. The moon shone from that side and apart from the room's dark golden glow it was silver. It was still snowing so small shadows danced across the floorboards constantly, as if they were flowing with the music itself.

It was beautiful.

As the piece eventually dragged to a close, Sherlock and Adelaide both looked at each other and smiled shyly. "You're improving." He said after a moment.

"And you're as great as ever, dad."

He chuckled lightly, "I should hope so, Addie, I should."

Adelaide giggled lightly and rolled her eyes in the pretentious way he usually did.

Molly felt like she was intruding on a particularly personal moment so she lingered back.

"Something's on your mind," She told her dad, standing up bringing the cello with her as she started to return it to it's case, her blonde hair hung over her shoulders like feathers.

"Yes." Sherlock agreed, but said no more. Suddenly he looked up and saw Molly in the doorway, his whole expression wavered. He turned his gaze to Adelaide who was applying rosin to her bow and slumped his shoulders a little. "Will you please excuse us, Addie?" She turned up to him and frowned, "I need to have a word with Miss Hooper, alone."

He sounded terribly blank, and Molly winced a little. Adelaide blinked, noticing Molly in the doorway and then smiled lightly. "Sure, I'll go and join the others." Nifty she rose to her feet and trotted out of the room, giving Molly a look of curiosity as she did.

Once alone, Sherlock simply stared at Molly with no emotion on his face.

Tentatively, the latter began to enter the room, "That piece… It was beautiful. M-my dad used to-"

"-Play it when you were younger yes." Her eyes widened, and he waved his hand, "I can read it all over you."

"Oh." She said with a short laugh, entering further into the room.

It began to feel very awkward. She didn't know what to say, she just had to do something- Anything- to resolve what had happened in the woods.

"I, uh, I have your coat. It's in my room."

"I remember."

"Okay."

They fell into silence again.

Sherlock swallowed, not standing up from the piano stool. There was a vulnerability in his eyes that Molly felt sympathetic for.

"…I'm scared, Molly."

She softened instantly, she paced over quietly and knelt in front of him, "Scared… Whatever for?"

"You scare me." He told her, honestly, she recoiled a little and he swallowed at how harsh the statement sounded, he tried to explain himself, "The way you smile and laugh is so enrapturing. The way I long to protect you, the way I want to…" He struggled to find the right words, "Run my hands through your hair, the way I've found myself so unconsciously find myself looking at your legs," He snorted at the notion, "It's terrifying. I've always managed to deduce people and know if they are safe or not. …You're the safest person I know, but that also makes you the most dangerous." His face faltered a little, "You must understand-"

"-I do. Sherlock, I do." Her heart was running a million miles an hour.

_He stares at my legs?_

_Bloody hell._

"You do?" He blinked, shocked.

Molly gave him a defeated smile, "You know I do you just won't admit it."

A low chuckle escaped his throat, "I know. I should never be close-minded about you, it never works." He sighed, and gazed at her honestly with a slight sense of desperation in his eyes, "I think about you a lot more than you're aware of, you know. You're so much more than a pathologist… You're _my _pathologist, you're Molly Hooper."

She stared at him in wonder, pushing the urge she had to check his temperature to make sure he wasn't ill aside. The snow continued to flow down the window.

"Sherlock… I feel you're trying to get at something, what- What are you-"

He stood up from the stool nervously and she followed. As he towered over her with severe intensity burning through his ice cold eyes everything seemed to slow down and fade away, as if they were trapped at the pivotal point in a dream. It reminded Molly of the night before Sherlock jumped of St Bart's roof, when he told her that he needed her. It was the same look that was crossing his face, the _same look- Oh God. _

"Molly, breathe."

Suddenly Molly let out a mass of air she didn't realize she'd been holding. Molly giggled shyly but Sherlock's gaze remained the same, silencing her again. Her mouth opened to form questions but didn't produce any sound. It was as if his ceaseless stare alone had the power to mute her completely.

"I'm about to do something very reckless and stupid." He was tracing her jaw with a delicate hand.

Molly felt like she was about to faint. "…Okay?"

"Please don't hit me-" His hands smoothed down to her hips.

She squirmed "Why would I-"

"Molly…"

He closed the gap between them.

Chiming bells merrily chorused.

Choirs of angels cried out in exultation.

Sherlock's mind fell blank.

_Lips._

_Molly's lips!_

_Who could deduce these?_

_Oh, the experiments I could do._

Molly's mind did several dramatic fist pumps into the air.

_Oh my God! Oh my God! Oh my God!_

_Sherlock Holmes is kissing me!_

_I'm probably dreaming…_

_This is so cheesy! Oh God!_

They parted soundly, and for a moment they refused to open their eyes which had somehow fallen closed. Sherlock gripped onto her waist tightly, afraid of letting go.

Catching her breath and forcing aside the urge she had to pinch herself, she forced her eyes open. He was still ridiculously close to her. "Sherlock… That, that-"

"Not now."

Just like that he was kissing her again. More confident this time, he wanted to be closer. He had to be close to the one woman who in all his life he had w_anted _to be this close with.

Oh, Molly!

A moan escaped the back of his throat that was carnal. _Carnal, for God's sake! _And he pressed her flush towards him. Molly sighed into his embrace as her hands fell into his hair dragging him closer. Their lips moulded together in perfect synchronisation, and when her tongue slipped past his lips Sherlock could not remember feeling this alive, not even on a case. All his nerves fell away, and he knew he'd never tire of this. Never ever.

A lack of oxygen overtook them again, and rather dramatically, she'll admit, Molly broke the kiss. She stared at Sherlock, utterly dumbfounded and he looked so shocked by his own actions he may as well have fainted on the spot. The intensity of the stare let the reality of what happened hit them. They'd kissed. They'd _actually _kissed!

But it was in that moment Sherlock straightened up a little, running a hand over his hair to smooth it. "Molly, I think I'll be sleeping in my own bed tonight."

Rejection, that's what Molly felt at first and her whole expression dropped considerably. Her heart clenched, and she began to think that she had actually gone too far now. But Sherlock was the one who'd initiated it, right?

Sensing her fear, he suddenly cupped her face in his large hands and smiled lightly, "Don't worry… I just need to think."

A wave of relief hit her and she physically relaxed. "Okay, um, that's fine."

"Good." Sherlock winked at her and then took her hand, "Thank you for being here, Molly. I've never been more grateful."

A sense of pure gratitude over took him and Molly's heart swelled, he looked beautiful when he smiled like that. "You're very welcome, Sherlock."

* * *

_They finally got there, aw! This last scene was actually planned for the next chapter, but I'm running slightly behind schedule because of social things so I thought I'd treat you to it now and swap some things around. _

_This chapter was set on the 23rd and clearly it's Christmas Eve now. I'm going to try to update the next chapter within the next few hours but if not then you'll have to wait until Boxing Day (sorry!), because we always go to our relative's who live in the countryside for Christmas. __Anyway, disregarding whether or not you celebrate Christmas have a lovely next couple of days if I can't update in the next few hours. We have four chapters to go, I think.:) And I did promise you awkward family dinners... ;)_

_Once again, any requests just let me know! Thank you for the AMAZING support. _

_Shoutouts to: love this, Renaissancebooklover108, Sepideh-the-sister, Jacomondo, kArA123, JudgeTenderlyofMe, Zeddy8, aurimaedre, AdaYuki, and Rosie85 for reviewing *hugs* _

_Lots of love, _

_Emily_


	4. Croquet, Charades, and Scandals

_Hello, everyone! I hope you all had a wonderful Christmas/are enjoying the holidays in general! I'm sorry this update is late, I had a wonderful time but sadly fell ill on Boxing Day after coming home so I haven't felt to up for writing. Still, I hope this instalment makes up for it being a day or so late! _

_Once again thank you for the huge support, with 60 followers now that equates to twenty new followers for each of the the three chapters on so far! Which is, AMAZING. So thank you so so much! :)_

_This chapter involves a scandal, arguments, feels, and fluff... Basically. :)_

**Chapter Four: Croquet, Charades, and Scandals**

* * *

_"The one thing women don't want to find in their stockings on Christmas morning is their husband."_  
_– Joan Rivers_

* * *

"It's okay, I can do it-"

"Nonsense dear! It's only my role as a wife to act as one, now sit and let me make you and your friend breakfast." With a wide smile that quickly turned into a pucker of her lips, Mrs Holmes sat Molly and John down at the Parlour table while she busied herself with their cooking.

On the morning of Christmas Eve, John and Molly had woken up around the same time and decided to head down for Breakfast together after Sherlock hadn't answered his door after they knocked; whether that was because he wasn't in or just wasn't bothered, they didn't know.

Mycroft sat preoccupied with a newspaper like he had been the day they had arrived, only glancing at them for a moment before seemingly blanking them out all together.

John and Molly made small talk for a moment or two but then it drained away, they couldn't discuss anything that wasn't openly general in front of the Holmes' anyway so the silence they opted for was probably the easiest decision.

At that moment John's mobile vibrated in his pocket, and the army doctor removed it smoothly.

_On Skype with Adelaide's mother discussing the girl's 'well-being'.  
Tedious.  
Shall be down soon.  
-SH_

John smirked and showed the message to Molly who nodded, silently relieved that Sherlock wasn't downstairs yet because she wasn't sure she was ready to face him after their kiss the night before.

It still lingered in her blood like a shot of an addictive drug.

It wasn't long until Mrs Holmes began to speak whilst busying herself with cooking to cover the silence with a wistful youth in her tone of voice that was barely covered by her age, she was happy.

"Please tell me Sherlock has told you both about our Christmas Eve festivities?" She called over her shoulder, moving some bread into the toaster.

John's brow lowered a little at how excited Violet sounded, he leaned back a little and smiled as Molly leaned in and cupped her hands together. "No, I don't think so." John replied shortly.

Violet Holmes tutted, "Ah, that boy, he always forgets. Well," She began to move around the parlour with imminent regality although all she was doing was retrieving eggs and putting them in a jug to scramble. "Today is essentially for the young ones instead of Theodore and myself, we have people like Frederick, Agatha and Stuart coming, all around your age; did you meet them at the party?"

"Yes, some of them." Responded Molly, shuffling a little as she recalled her time with Frederick that Sherlock had bought to a thankful end.

"Well, for the Holmes' family tradition just like when they were children they engage charade and croquet until we have a formal dinner and exchange our Secret Santa gifts and then retire to bed early so the staff can prepare the home for tomorrow's celebration."

John guffawed, "Croquet? On this property?"

The toaster clicked and she waltzed up to it merrily, "We have an inside tennis court we shall use for the croquet because I refuse to let you all play in the snow."

"A tennis court? Where?" Molly asked, astounded; there was still so much of the home she hadn't explored yet.

"Downstairs, underground." Replied a male voice, they both looked over to Mycroft folding up his newspaper and putting it back on the table, "Surely mummy you don't think we're getting too old?"

"Nonsense! Sherlock never complains and you shouldn't either."

At that comment Molly and John looked at each other and grinned knowing that Sherlock would never complain at an opportunity to cause mischief.

"Sherlock" Mycroft stated as he rose to make himself a cup of tea, his eyes lingering on Molly as he did.

"S-sorry?" Molly asked.

Mycroft pouted a little and then a small snide chuckle left from his chest, "Sorry for being so abrupt. I was just wondering if you found him?"

Molly didn't look any more informed than before.

"You went looking for Sherlock last night. You didn't stay for the film- You asked us where he was and then you-"

"Oh. Yeah, I-I did, I found him." Molly replied, with a slight blush.

A vacant look overtook her as suddenly thousands of memories began to replay in repeat in her head over and over. She remembered how she had discovered that his father had abused him at a young age, she remembered how he admitted that he was terrified of her because she bought out the human in him, and she remembered how his lips felt on hers and it bought her whole thought process to a standstill.

_Catching her breath and forcing aside the urge she had to pinch herself, she forced her eyes open. He was still ridiculously close to her. "Sherlock… That, that-"_

_"Not now."_

_Just like that he was kissing her again. More confident this time, he wanted to be closer. He had to be close to the one woman who in all his life he had wanted to be this close with._

"Molly?"

She literally had to shake her head to stop herself from eloping into the memories. John was frowning at her pensively as was Mycroft, "Did something happen?"

Violet left the room muttering something about a whisk.

"What? –No." Molly blinked.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes complacently, "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" She was flushed and her cheeks burnt furiously, and John didn't look very convinced.

He sighed knowingly, voice getting quieter, "If Sherlock's acting like a dick to you, you will tell me, won't you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at that.

_Of course. John suspects everything but a romantic gesture. _

"Yes of course, John."

Pouting again, the army doctor studied her as if he were running his own line of deductions. After a moment he responded with a small "Okay" in acceptance, but didn't look pleased because she hadn't actually told him anything.

She wanted to tell him though.

Oh, she wanted to scream what had happened through the roof tops all the way to the moon and back but she held herself steady because it still didn't make much sense.

When Sherlock had kissed her was it a true proclamation that she actually counted so much he was willing to make her his romantic partner? Something he'd never done before? Or was it just a week reflex from all the stress and emotions going through him at the concept of returning to his childhood home? That answer worried her. Sherlock had rejected her on end for seven years, why should it suddenly change now?

At that moment Violet Holmes entered the room with a young man with slick brown hair by her side.

"Doctor Hooper?"

Nearly everyone startled apart from Mycroft who just raised a cynical eyebrow and returned to what he was doing before.

The young man bounced on his heels apprehensively, "Doctor Hooper, Theodore Holmes asks for a private word with you."

Molly had a sharp intake of breath at the request and looked over at John worriedly whilst Violet Holmes scolded the young butler for giving the other's such a fright.

Nervously, Molly abandoned her breakfast and got to her feet, "S-sure okay."

Biting her lip, she followed the young man out of the room. John watched them leave and knitted his brow in confusion, turning to Violet again. The older woman was now picking at her food sadly, not looking up.

"Violet?" John enquired softly, the older woman jumped a bit but relaxed; her eyes were sad and drawn compared to before. John had seen Sherlock with similar expression's before. "Do you know why your husband wants to speak with Molly?"

There was a brief silence and the old woman just looked at John with no expression on her face. Slowly she put her fork down, reached out and took his hand softly, as a soft forced smile graced her face that was supposed to make you feel comfortable but instead made his stomach twist in the opposite, "It's none of your concern, dear." She said dejectedly, "Don't think about it."

Somehow John thought that the words were more for herself than for him.

* * *

**Later**

Pressing the 'End Call' button on Skype, Adelaide and Sherlock both let out huge sighs and leant back in Unison, slumping. "Your mother is one piece of work! I don't know if I can deal with these ridiculous, foolhardy calls…" He frowned.

"Once a day-"

"_Once a day _whilst you're here and she's still in Lithuania! It's dull, it's pretentious!" Sherlock exclaimed, leaning forward again and steepling his head under his chin.

Adelaide giggled, "I know, I'm sorry. You'd figure she'd trust you by now."

"Ah, no, I don't think she's ever going to trust me, Addie." Sherlock replied knowingly, "I did practically leave her to raise you alone."

The teenager's jaw dropped a little, "That wasn't your fault though."

"Of course it was," Sherlock replied simply, "If I hadn't been so addicted on drugs at the time it wouldn't have been a problem."

He looked over awaiting her response but didn't get one, it grew quiet.

Adelaide paused a bit and swallowed, and Sherlock stopped feeling the sting of what he had said kick in.

Adelaide had been raised to be completely understanding of her dad's predicament and not to blame him for his absence, but despite all that she had always had the missing father figure in her life; she had liked to fill it up with the knowledge of how great he was and how much of a great duty he was carrying out in London but at the end of the day she had been a mistake, and sending her away had been the way that he didn't have to face it every day because at the time he had been unstable. Thinking about it like that meant that he had failed her, and she hated viewing the reality of it, because in her mind she loved him with a firm passion.

Sherlock swallowed stiffly looking at his daughter who was not avoiding eye contact, "Addie…" He began softly.

"It's okay," She replied quietly, voice breaking a little, "I understand, you know I do."

The consulting detective sighed, reached out and pulled her gaze up to face him. Her eyes were brimming with the tears of all the years he'd never been there, all the years she'd never been willing to accept that it was his negligence that had led her to be raised only by her mother and not him too, "Addie…"

"No dad, it's fine… I know."

"I have always cared about you, you know."

She blinked sadly, "I know that."

"And I intend to watch you grow, even if from afar." His voice had gotten softer, "You're my one true regret, and believe me over these sixteen years there has never been a day when you haven't crossed my mind." He was studying her, deducing her thoughts and reactions as he said this openly.

She blinked and looked up at him with wide eyes that carried the paleness of his own, "S-since when are you so open?"

He couldn't help the small chuckle that left his throat, "I think… I think I'm becoming a little bit more human every day since John entered my life, how… _cliché." _He grimaced at the word.

Adelaide giggled and then knelt on the settee facing him, "Dad," She began, "My dad, human? Never. You belong to the aliens who bought you here in a pod forty years ago."

He laughed and shook his head, "At least that'd explain why Mycroft keeps wanting his government to experiment on me-"

She threw her head back in laughter, "MI7 have always looked at you strangely, haven't they?"

Sherlock gave a mock salute reciting in a deep salacious baritone, "For the sake of queen and country-"

The door opened and Marie burst in. Sherlock rolled his eyes as she rushed over. "Good morning," He announced pleasantly, spinning to his heels. Adelaide went to picked up the iPad from the table.

"Sherlock."

Marie was panicking, she ran up to Sherlock and gripped onto his wrist with a force so tight it stopped him dead. As soon as he turned his gaze to her and ran his eyes up and down her features, he let go.

And he ran from the room.

Her face was all the deductions he needed to know what was going on.

Adelaide looked up at Marie who was pretty startled that he hadn't even had to ask her anything to work is out. "What's going on?" The teenager asked as she got to her feet.

Marie Holmes stared pensively for a moment before shaking her head and leaving.

* * *

_Molly._

_Bloody hell, Molly._

_What the hell do you think you're doing?_

Sherlock ran. He ran through corridors and up stair cases (nearly knocking over second cousin Stuart but that was probably more of a greeting he'd have given otherwise) until he finally reached his destination. His father's study.

He grabbed the door handle, pushed it down and slammed himself against the old wood so it opened with a loud crash. He was met by Molly colliding into his body shaking forcibly whilst Theodore Holmes sat at his desk in all of his glory, although his face was reddened and his fists were clenched.

_Oh, Molly._

It appeared Sherlock had caught her just as the pathologist was storming out. Silently Sherlock acknowledged that she was amazing for putting up with the man for- He took another glance at his father- eight minutes and thirty seven seconds.

"Don't listen to him," He heard her whisper into his dark purple shirt, "Please don't. ...He knows about what happened yesterday, I-I can't-"

"Stay here." Sherlock instructed as his voice dropped a whole octave lower than usual. He moved past Molly like a jaguar and towards his father's desk, and slammed his hands onto the table with force enough to cause bruises.

Molly leapt at the sound and stood by the door worriedly, doing as she was told.

"What did you say to her?" Sherlock demanded through gritted teeth.

Mr Holmes blinked, feigning innocence and entwined his wrinkled fingers, protruding his lips and moustache finely, "Nothing she didn't need to know."

"No_- Tell me_." His voice was a threat, a firm threat.

The old man raised his nose, "Sherlock you being here is just proving everything I just said to the young woman to be true."

"What do you mean?" With another glance Sherlock realized what his father meant. And he physically stood back because he knew.

"Father," He began, mentally counting to ten over and over increasing in speed and dynamic, "When, will you, stop telling, people, that I, am, dangerous?"

"When you stop throwing yourself off buildings and get professional help." He replied silkily.

Sherlock clenched his fists on the opposite side of his father's desks so tight his knuckles turned white. "When will you admit that I'm not you? That I am stronger_?" _

The older Holmes snorted, "Poppycock. You'd have been better off actually taking the fall, actually killing yourself, like a _man_ would."

"Not here, not in front of Molly." Sherlock hissed vehemently.

"Why?" Theodore Holmes' rich laughter perpetrated the walls of the office, "It's best she sees you for what you are before you go impregnating her on a bender like_ 'the other one'_"

Molly moved forward suddenly grabbing Sherlock's arm and pulling him back with a flash of determination on her face, "That only happened because you hurt him so badly the only way he could search for affection was in the blind mist of drugs. You did nothing to help him."

The severity of her voice stunned Sherlock to his core. Molly was sticking up for him. She was actually taking his side in front of his father. His own mother had never even done that.

"Molly," He pleaded out of instinct, instantly worrying that putting herself in the firing line would be a bad idea, he tried to pull her back but she stayed.

"You Theodore Holmes were ill, you were abusive but got better. You should have helped Sherlock get better too, not continue to repress him but without the violence! Can't you see what you've done?"

"Molly _please_ step back-"

"What purpose would that serve?" Retorted the older man with ice in his eyes, "Let her say it out loud and realize what dumb remarks they actually are, and what little tenacity they function. Stupid girl."

Sherlock leant forward precipitously, so close he was practically breathing onto his father's neck. _"Don't call her stupid."_

"She works with the dead. Totally inept in social skills if you examine-"

"Molly is the cleverest person I have ever met," Sherlock responded flatly, "She is the most understanding and most forgiving. Don't you d_are _pull her into the trajectory of your spite or I shall show you for what you truly are and you will lose _everything._" He spat the last word out with force.

Molly's jaw dropped.

Theodore Holmes rolled his eyes and grinned, "You are mad- insane-, you know. You're ill enough to give yourself a job that has no credentials and spend your time gaining your relief on _ignorant men and woman" _He flashed his eyes to Molly,_ "_Just to fill in the ache because you know that nobody wants you. Nobody wants the mess of man you've become. You _disgust_ me, Sherlock."

Molly was staring at Sherlock helplessly, tears streaming down her face. She didn't know how one man could be so cruel.

She had known as soon as she'd gone up to see Theodore that he hadn't only physically abused Sherlock for a short time, but he had mentally abused him ever since; when she had found out from Mycroft that they had 'never made up' and that Theodore had always blamed Sherlock for his violence since it happened, it appeared the only logical step.

She confirmed it to be true in the moment that fear flashed in the detective's face at his father's harsh words, and the face of a scared child emerged just for a breathing moment before dissipating again. Molly put her hands over Sherlock's on the desk and he flinched. She ignored it.

"Sherlock has a whole other family back at Bakerstreet," She began with a rare confidence she hadn't felt before, "A whole other life full of people who love him and who would die for him. A life in which he's learning to accept the true human in him, and I am not going to let you abuse him any longer! Your_ son_ is a great man and you're a _sick bastard_ for not realising how lucky you are, for not mourning his death, for believing that_ he's_ ill when _you're_ the one who needs help but is too afraid to admit it, and for thinking that because he kissed me that I'm in danger of him hurting me, both physically and mentally because you think he is everything that's bad inside you on a_ slab!_"

"Molly-" Sherlock's voice broke. If Molly had looked for a moment it would have broken her heart because he was just a terrified little boy, one who thought that if they provoked his father then he would get hurt as a result.

"You know a glimmer of Sherlock Holmes, Theodore; a_ glimmer_ of the cascade of fireworks and light and noise and colours that he is. He's the most beautiful, most human man. To come from a world like this with a mind brighter than the whole team of Scotland Yard itself is amazing, it's inspiring. You're _pathetic_ for not noticing that. You're pathetic to not realize how lucky you are for having him in your life." She leant downwards, staring at the old man with elicit ferocity, he appeared appalled at her words, "One day, you'll regret it Theodore Holmes. You'll regret every mistake you made when raising the most perfect man I know." Shifting her hands slightly under Sherlock's the detective met eyes with her.

Molly swallowed and tried to restrain her bottom lip from trembling.

She felt as if the ground was going to fall beneath her feet, she'd never been so angry at one person in her life before.

"L-Let's go." She breathed quietly, soothingly, before tearing her gaze back to Theodore Holmes and muttering, "_There's only so much stupidity in a room a woman can deal with." _

Sherlock shakily straightened up a little; his face unreadable as Molly took his hand tightly into hers and walked from the room with him, leaving Theodore Holmes stunned into silence.

As soon as they were out on to the corridor, Sherlock span Molly around and hugged her tight. She sobbed all her pent up anger into his shoulders, and he let out his fears and stress and unspoken grievances. He pushed away from her holding her at arm's length, her face was practically sodden from crying and her arms were shaking violently, she was barely focusing on him. "S-Sherlock…"

"Molly, you," Disarmed, he found he couldn't find the words; he had bought her here to make up for all he had put her through a year ago, to thank her for this would be impossible; she'd done so much more for him than he could ever do for anyone; she was ten times the person that he was or would ever be, "You… You stood up for me."

A light smile tugged at the corners of her lips, but it was too late. She fainted on the corridor, all the emotions within her simply too much for her body to cope with.

* * *

**Four Hours Later**

"Croquet!" Exclaimed Marie Holmes delightedly, swinging the mallet over her head with ease.

The small group cheered, jeered and chuckled as they all stood in front of her all with their own mallets. Sherlock stood at the back of the group, bored. The whole game was basic, it had no technique or expansive skills to apply to it. The whole concept was tedious, and he didn't know how he'd managed for years suffering this one game of it every year on Christmas Eve.

_Dull, boring, foolhardy- _

With a shrug, he decided to see what poor unfortunates had turned up this year.

_Mycroft, obviously, is having indigestion, possibly bad wind, may have to experiment later. John, same as always, has washed, wanting to impress, ugh. Slimy second-cousin Stuart, finally came in some shirt that wasn't that terrible olive colour. Second second-cousin Phillip, really? Second-cousins friend Agatha- Agatha the astrophysicist mummy wanted me to talk to- _He looked over her appearance once and stifled a cough- _Laughable, Married first-cousin Frederick, pathetic excuse for a person. Married first-cousin Frederick's wife-_

_Married first-cousin Frederick's wife!_

_Oh._

_This could be fun._

As Marie Holmes explained to everyone the rules of the game that they (The Holmes' at least) already knew in detail, Sherlock slipped over to the side where John and Molly were. Molly still looked fatigued; she still looked like she'd been hit by the flu. Sherlock swallowed and stroked her wrist, making her jolt. Sherlock grinned as John and Godmother's daughter Calanthe shot him a look. The redhead looked back but John's gaze lingered as he saw Sherlock lean in and whisper into Molly's ear.

Earlier the pair vanished for two whole hours and when John had found the room they were in- Mycroft's childhood bedroom- Sherlock had shouted at him through the door to leave. When they finally returned they had been off, a little flushed and distracted, especially Molly.

John hadn't received an explanation of either of them.

As Molly listened to what Sherlock was saying to her, her lips tugged with laughter and she gently slapped his hand to warn him off.

_Flirting,_ John thought with complete horror.

_Sherlock Holmes was flirting._

With a smug grin he stood close to her and they exchanged a small nod, before he left and stood back at his earlier place at the other side of the group, his gaze lingering on Molly who was trying to look anywhere but at him.

_The game was back on. _

The group were split into two teams:

Marie, Sherlock, Married first-cousin Frederick's wife, Godmother's daughter Calanthe, _God knows how I'm related to him _Dwight Castleton, and second-cousin Phillip on one,

John, Molly, Married first-cousin Frederick, Slimy Second second-cousin Stuart, Astrophysicist Agatha, Mycroft, and _discreet-boob-job Ronnette_ on the other.

Triumphantly, Marie raised up a small fifty pence coin in her slender hands, looking at the teams eagerly and threw it, catching it in her left palm and announcing with a grin, "My team goes first."

The game started as standard as it always did, the first team started with the red and yellow balls and began to hit them as they did every year. Marie and Sherlock would do effortlessly as well as frugal Dwight Castleton meanwhile Married first-cousin Frederick's wife did alright but was so quiet barely anyone noticed her, whilst second-cousin Phillip would try but not have a bone of coördination in his body and Calanthe was in the same boat. For the second team John worked like a soldier and it paid off even when it came down to the novelty of croquet, all whilst ogling boob-job Ronnette (much to Sherlock's disappointment), Astrophysicist Agatha had surprisingly good aim as did Second second-cousin Stuart, whilst Mycroft moved like a spider across the court but failed to go beyond average in ability, and Molly flailed aimlessly whilst Married first-cousin Frederick would not really care and spend half the time ogling women who weren't his wife (this year: discreet-boob-job Ronnette and Molly Hooper- He had tried Marie Holmes last year, and she had punched him).

"Go on," Sherlock called friendlily to married first-cousin Frederick's wife as she focused on the red ball in front of her intently, "You can get it through number five, come on."

Positioning her mallet, she hesitated and said "The angle's impossible."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and approached her with a huff. He stood behind her closely much like he had done to Molly in the woods the day before. The ebony-haired woman blinked uncomfortably as Sherlock's hands laced around hers and the mallet. Meanwhile a few feet away on the turf, Molly was stood with Frederick joking about what had happened at the greeting's party, tossing her hair and making soft comments near his ear half the time and boob-job Ronnette joined them, occasionally letting her hand drift onto Frederick's shoulder or to his jaw when he made a hit.

"Focus, take a deep breath" Sherlock cooed down into the woman's ear lobe, "There you go, that's the angle, good girl-"

"Sherlock, my husband is there." She whimpered desperately, sweating with how uncomfortable she had become as Sherlock's pelvis ever so gently began to lean into her back-

Sherlock let go suddenly and scratched the back of his neck, feigning embarrassment, "Oh God, sorry-" He took a long stare at her, "…_Susanna_, God- I didn't realize. Is that your husband?" He acknowledged Dwight Castleton with a worried glance.

Susanna didn't even know Dwight Castleton.

She shook her head, confused, "No, it's… Frederick."

Sherlock blanched in shock, "Oh God, I didn't know, I'm sorry- I thought he was with, ah, the uh, redhead." He cast his gaze to boob-job Ronnette who was trying to fix the said husband's collar as Molly laughed in the background earning a firm frown from John who was oblivious to the entire thing and therefore thoroughly confused.

There was a long pause as Susanna stared at her husband and the redhead having their moment, before her grip on the mallet tightened, "Stand back, I think I've got this."

She hit the ball through the hoop point without even looking.

As Sherlock slunk back to where he'd been before, Marie slid over just as slyly to his side. She rested with one hand on her mallet, whispering in a sultry tone, "Affair?"

"Not just that; mistress." Sherlock confirmed quietly, "Ronnette is one of Frederick's mistresses whom his wife doesn't know about."

Marie looked pleased, "What are you going to do about it?"

"Well," He murmured with a contrived innocence, "I cannot let this go ahead can I? I must do something to stop this adultery getting out of hand."

A leer formed on the woman's defined face, and she looked at her cousin proudly "Now, there's the Sherlock Holmes I know."

He winked at her, before returning to Molly, informing her about Ronnette so he didn't have to use her any more, all she had to do was convince the other's that Ronnette was with Frederick for those who didn't know they were married.

_Oh, this was too easy!_

* * *

"Charades!" Second-Cousin Stuart laughed grossly, waving around his bald head like a spectacle and flailing his hands around until Calanthe exclaimed "You're a light bulb!" To which all the group broke down in hysterics.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Marie, it's your turn."

The group had gathered in the drawing room and were sat in a large semi-circle in front of the hearth. One by one the group had to get up and pretend to be an object, or person, or a character and the rest of them had to guess. There were no teams for this one, it was just a bit of fun. Phillip had laughed unobtrusively calling that Sherlock shouldn't be allowed to answer anything because he'd deduce it anyway and he'd agreed, however knowing that Charade's was not something he was good at after the _traumatic_ game of _2003 _in which Marie Holmes had swung her arms around repetitively and Sherlock had leapt to his feet, excitedly shouting out that it was a man with a shot-gun committing a triple homicide, which then she responded with, 'No… Sherlock, it was a waltz'.

He hadn't contributed since.

Marie got to her feet, stood so her back was facing everyone else and then began to rub her hands in exaggeration down her sides. She was met by a chorus of people shouting 'Kissing!' and Dwight yelling 'Get a room!' and then sitting back proudly debuting himself as the most hilarious in the space.

Marie shook her head as 'no' and then turned around again, she mimicked the fourth finger on her left hand and recoiled, before repeating the same action as before again; she then turned and pretended in an exaggerated fashion to be a thin attractive woman showing curves and grace, to then a gargantuan figure of the latter. She nodded at the attractive mime she did and continued to the earlier motion.

Sherlock, making sure he was in hearing distance of discreet boob-job Ronnette turned around to John and muttered, "It's clearly an affair."

Ronnette literally leapt to her feet screeching in a terrible soprano, "Affair! It's an affair!"

"Yes!" Squealed Marie, running down and hugging Ronnette excitedly, "Susanna, your go!"

As Susanna got up to play Ronnette did exactly what she shouldn't have done, and exactly what Sherlock knew she was going to do. She sat next to Frederick, and winked at him, right in the view of Susanna who'd been suspicious about something going on between them since the game of croquet.

She stopped, and glowered.

The room fell silent, and a sniggering Frederick finally looked up to his wife's stare which was like the roaring flame of a rocket lifting off. "You promised me you wouldn't, not here." She spat.

His jaw slacked open but he didn't say a word.

"Bastard." She hissed, before storming out of the room.

There was an awkward silence, before Frederick slowly got to his feet, shuffling awkwardly.

He turned his gaze towards Sherlock, "Bet you're proud of yourself, aren't you Holmes."

"Me?" The detective scoffed, "I haven't done a thing."

"Yeah, _clearly." _He moaned sarcastically before tearing himself out of the room.

There was another silence, and most of the eyes moved from the doorway to Sherlock. He shrugged limply. Adelaide looked over at him, knitting her brow before asking something in her foreign Lithuanian tongue.

Most of the group had no idea what she was saying but watched as Sherlock looked back at her and responded with a singular word, "Taip", to which she made a noise of approval before smirking to herself gladly and Mycroft let out a long dejected moan.

* * *

**Later, after the party had retired to bed.. **

John was stood in the doorway to Sherlock's room, watching as the detective moved about with his usual grace and suavity in the simple task of getting night clothes he wished to wear from his drawers. Slowly, the detective ran his hands through a pile of socks, looked up and sighed, "What is it?"

"Why wasn't your father at dinner?"

Sherlock shrugged.

John pouted a little, "No, really, why?"

"Why are you asking me, John?" Sherlock looked up from where he was sat, a little aggravated. Seeing John stand back in reaction Sherlock returned his gaze to the draw, wanting this certain pair of socks he chose to sleep in with certain pajamas but having trouble finding them, "I don't know, mummy said he'd taken himself ill."

"Why did he want to speak to Molly this morning?"

A grunt of frustration left the detective, "Why are you asking so many questions about my father?"

His voice had grown in volume, just that little bit; and John took it as a hint to take a different approach, because he knew about Sherlock's past abuse now and Sherlock knew he did, "Has he… Has he been, uh-"

"Cruel?" Sherlock finished for him, before scoffing, "Of course."

"To Molly?"

"And I. Both of us. I think she scared him off." A flash of pride washed through his eyes.

John hesitated, but then continued "Why both of you?"

"He tried to convince Molly that I was dangerous."

"Why would he do that?"

Sherlock snickered, "Probably thought he was 'protecting' her from me."

John paused, before asking slowly, "Why hasn't he done the same to me? We're closer than the two of you are, aren't we? I mean," John let out a belated sigh, "Sorry, I'm rambling."

For a moment Sherlock looked up blankly, and sighed, "You're going to overreact if you know."

"You see though, I have a feeling I've already worked it out." Began John, "But I need to know for sure."

"So, then what? You can protect Molly from me too?" Spitefully answered Sherlock with a roll of his eyes.

He retrieved his socks, placed them on his bed and went over to the wardrobe. John swallowed, "…So I'm right then?"

"Not completely." Omitted Sherlock, sifting through a mass of shirts.

John sighed, "You know exactly what I'm thinking about."

Sherlock looked over and stared at John with an expression to say 'c_learly'. _The army doctor frowned at that as the detective began to explain in a wistful baritone, "You think I have feelings for Molly that I'm expressing but haven't been open about yet, you feel that because of this that I'm leading her on like I always do and you're about to lecture me about how I'm an ignorant git for doing just that."

Raising his eyebrows a little, never being able to not be amazed at how accurate Sherlock's deductions were sometimes, John shrugged his shoulders a little. "If I'm wrong then what is the truth?"

"You are right in some ways," Sherlock drawled as he reached out and removed the pajamas he'd been looking for proudly. He began to walk across the room to put them with his socks, "I do have feelings for Molly, but I'm not leading her on."

John looked in amazement at Sherlock, he had never heard him be so opens about any affections of a romantic fashion before, he hadn't thought he'd get such a straight response from him.

Sherlock blinked, before continuing in a quieter voice, "We kissed last night."

That was when John's jaw dropped. His face puzzled over several emotions before it just settled on straight shock, as if he were a teenager receiving gossip.

"You… Kissed… You kissed Molly?"

Oh, it was awkward.

"Didn't you hear me the first time?"

"Yes I, ah… Wow."

"No need to look so flustered, John." Sherlock spoke with a smirk, before mimicking the comments they'd heard so often, "Anyone would think you're jealous."

"No I'm sorry," Replied John with a short laugh, "I'm just…" Another laugh, "Wow. The fall really did alter your way of thinking, didn't it?"

"It appears so."

"So, uh," The army doctor pulled at his jumper a little, before returning his gaze to his friend, "What happens now?"

"I hope for mine and Molly's relationship to progress."

"Okay."

It fell silent and John's weak reply as the shock of Sherlock's new sudden change of thought sunk in properly.

"Actually," Sherlock started, walking up to John smoothly, "I was wondering if you had any, ah… Protection."

John blinked, and then moved his head backwards, before repeating in the flattest voice he could, "…You're asking me for _protection." _

"Yes."

John's expression didn't move "For _Molly."_

"Yes, John."

"…For s_ex."_

"Apparently so." Sherlock glowered, "Am I not making myself clear?"

"Of course you are, just-"He ran a hand through his hair, "Oh my bloody hell fire."

"Please refrain from the curses John, it's Christmas." Sherlock told him with the faintest of smirks. John looked at his watch realizing it said _12:03am; _It was Christmas day, a small smile found his way onto John's lips.

Looking back up, he met eyes with the detective, and they both glanced at each other before breaking out into quiet laughter at everything, the whole situation. It was hilarious just because of how strange it all was. It reminded John of when they had been at Buckingham Palace before the fall and bought a wide smile to his lips. Sherlock was his best friend, and no one could change that.

With a military shrug, John straightened up, "One man helping another on Christmas, then."

"Oh," Sherlock began, following John as they headed back to the army doctor's room, "I don't know, maybe not tonight, maybe not for a while… Just best to be prepared if the time arises, you know? Can't have another Adelaide as of yet."

John wrinkled his nose, "Sherlock please for the sake of my sanity do _not _go any further. I'm grossed out enough as it is."

With a sense of vulgarity, the detective scoffed and John smirked as they reached his bedroom. Quickly and awkwardly, John went to his bedside draw and received the object that Sherlock was after. Refusing to make eye contact for the sake of how awkward it was, John handed it over and Sherlock slipped it into his pocket.

"Thank you." He smiled, with a light tilt of the head.

John returned him with a gawky grin and a light shrug. "I think I'm going to leave you to it then."

"Okay. Good." Sherlock agreed, "See you in the morning?"

"In the morning." Established John as Sherlock stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him.

Once alone, John walked in silence over to his bed, sat down and slowly leant back breathing, "Oh my God…" Into the quiet of the Holmes household.

* * *

When Sherlock entered Molly's bedroom, a million thoughts were running through his head, like he had become in sync with the severe speed of life London constantly pulsed and breathed with. He had hundreds of goals and aims and no idea how to reach them. He had thought of a thousand scenarios on to how he would approach this moment, he had dreamt about-

The breath left him as soon as he laid eyes on her.

Facing the window and away from him, Molly was sat on her bed quietly brushing her hair, she hummed the gentle tune of _Silent Night _on her lips and looked calmed by it. She was wearing her nightwear from home: a plain white shirt with an atrocious design of a cat on it labelled "_Are you kitten me right now?" _with plain black shorts. She had left the curtains open, and she was gazing out on the grounds of the Holmes' estate, which is blanketed in a fresh sheet of snow with such a childish love in her eyes it made him unconsciously smile.

The first morning after they had arrived Sherlock realized that he had missed morning-Molly, and he hadn't considered in this moment that he had missed night-Molly too. Sherlock had seen her in those pyjamas before after the fall, and only then did he realize that how adorable she looked in them.

He was looking at Molly Hooper; not pathologist Molly Hooper, not awkward-constantly-tripping-over-her-words Molly Hooper, not battling with his father with her words of affection for Sherlock Molly Hooper.

No.

This was just Molly in a pure moment, a moment in which she was just nothing but herself and he wanted nothing less.

"Molly." He breathed, in a hoarse voice.

She turned quietly, and focused her big brown eyes on him in confusion before the slightest content smile graced her face, "Shouldn't you knock?"

Sherlock didn't reply, his expression remained simply illusive. He stepped across the room to her and sat down next to her in silence. She watched him tentatively, wondering what he was doing with every move he made.

"Turn around." He managed quietly.

Molly blinked at him but then Sherlock reached out quietly and removed the hairbrush from her hands. Understanding, she turned her back to him, and he began to brush her hair, admiring how it felt under his hands, every different shade of colour he caught it in under the light and he was horrified by how captivated he was by it. It was only hair, and yet he wanted to catch himself in it all day.

"You've done this before" Molly mused as the brush went through her hair smoothly.

"I used to do mummy's hair," Sherlock explained softly as his breath ghosted her back as he moved her hair to one side, "But more often the nanny's."

She looked over her bare shoulder at him and smiled. "Are you okay?"

He knitted his brow a little at such an open question, "Yes, are you?"

Molly looked at him for a moment and then let out a soft breath, "I suppose so, I still can't get over what happened this morning. Thank you… Thank you for helping me after I passed out, I don't know what happened- Your father was just-"

"I know." He omitted softly, "And don't worry about it. …No one ever stuck up for me like that before, not even my mother or Mycroft. They were all too scared of him in the end. But you weren't," He stared at her pensively and took a few hairs between his thumb and his index finger, stroking them gently, "You weren't scared."

"I was terrified." She admitted. Sherlock pulled back as a worried expression dawned on him but she smiled at him in simple reassurance, "But if you care about someone so much you don't let fear get in the way, just like I know you were scared before the fall… And yet you still jumped because you just didn't let it distract you."

He was silent for a moment in thought, before the quietest response fell from his lips, "You're amazing, Molly Hooper."

"You're the amazing one." Molly grinned at him as Sherlock suddenly leant in and pressed his lips to hers softly, lingering just for a moment before letting go. He then kissed her forehead and smiled.

"Merry Christmas, Molly."

"Y-You too…" She managed, turning around to face him.

They glanced at each other for a fleeting moment, before they drew to each other again. Once again the kiss was soft and gentle, and a tender sigh emitted from Molly's throat as Sherlock slipped his tongue through her teeth. His arms wound around the small of her back as her hands found their way into his hair much like the night before.

Electing a soft groan from him, Sherlock began to feel a rise of passion within his chest and began to draw himself closer, wrapping himself around her more until she had laid back on the bed with him coming over her. Hiding his nervousness he didn't realize he had, he moved his kisses to her collar bone and a soft gasp escaped her in surprise as he discovered a sweet spot on the crevice of her neck. His hands left the small of her back because it was now in the bed and began to run over her stomach, tracing small circles through the fabric of her shirt until he decided to take the next step. Tenderly, he began to drift his hands up towards her-

"Sherlock, wait, no-"

Her small hands pushed him on his shoulders and he blinked up at her confusion.

Molly ran her hands over his shoulders and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, "It's been two days, let's not rush things. Please?"

With a small smile, Sherlock kissed her again and murmured, "Of course."

"Shall we go to sleep?"

He smirked and eased himself off her, crawling to the other side of the bed, "That'll probably be best."

As Molly turned to turn the light off, Sherlock removed his shirt and trousers, climbing into the quilt almost silently. She directed a small gaze at him, before she did something she never thought she'd do in front of him; quietly she lifted her shirt of her head, leaving only her shorts.

She heard Sherlock shuffle in the quilt behind her, "Molly, what are you doing?" He managed; voice deeper than usual gazing at her bare back and bra strap from behind.

Molly turned around slightly to gaze at him, "I was too hot last time you slept in here. I'm compensating for the heat."

She then turned the light off, not wanting him to realize how horrified she was because she had actually just done that so easily. She'd never thought she'd be able to that for anyone. Slipping under the covers, she was suddenly enveloped in his arms and their skin brushed together perfectly Molly thought she was in heaven.

Then, as she always did, she considered exactly what was going on as realistically as she could and heat rushed to her cheeks.

"I know you're blushing."

"Shut up."

* * *

_D'aw! The fluff! :') Please leave a review for this, I'm not too sure about this chapter bearing in mind I've not really been in a clear state of mind when writing it, ugh. I should be better soon though! _

_Sending hugs to Jacomondo, AveP, nocturnias, Akeenreader, Renaissancebooklover108, aurimaedre, MarBre582, BonneyQ, and Itmonster20 for the reviews! _

_Emily_


	5. You Both Wanted to be Pirates

_Hello, everyone! Just a quick word of thanks for the amazing responses to the last chapter, yet again (I swear you all spoil me rotten!;)). _

_Just a quick word to tell you that this chapter is pretty much a complete mix of fluff, awkwardness and oh so many feels, I hope I don't break any of you. It took ages to write and has ended up being ridiculously long, but I hope you enjoy the ride:) I never expected the Holmes' to have a smooth sailing Christmas, especially after one of them has been dead for over a year!_

**Chapter 5: You Both Wanted to be Pirates **

* * *

"_Santa Claus has the right idea. Visit people once a year."_

– _Victor Borge_

* * *

_Ring, ring_

"Noooooo"

_Ring, ring_

"Shut up, barbaric machine!"

Molly wrinkled her nose and stuffed her face into her pillow with a long _Ugggghhh._

_Ring, ring_

Sherlock clambered on top of her lazily as he reached out to her bedside table, yawning.

"Sher-_lock!"_ Squirmed Molly in a shocked gasp as he practically crawled over her.

_Ring, ring_

With a soft grin he leant back to his previous space, Molly's mobile in his hands and answered the call calmly, "Sherlock Holmes." He muttered in greeting.

There was small silence on the other end of the phone before a woman began talking, and then Molly sank back further into bed with a small smile, thankful that Sherlock was taking the call instead of her.

"Oh! Well a Merry Christmas to you too!" Chuckled Sherlock warmly on the phone, Molly closed her eyes in contentment, "No- Molly's sleeping like an _angel _and I haven't woke her."

His dramatic affectionate tone shot sudden awareness into Molly's body.

_Wait._

Slowly, Molly's senses kicked in and she turned a confused glance to the detective who was giving her a flirtatious grin with a fire in his eyes. Who was he speaking to?

_Bloody hell, who is he speaking to?_

_On my mobile?_

Who would ring her first thing on Christmas day?

Molly sat up briskly and instantly made a firm gesture with her hands for her to hand the mobile back. Sherlock wiggled his index finger at her, trying not to laugh. He began to back himself of the bed and she clambered after him, kneeling at the end as he now stood up and stretched listening to whoever it was talking to him. As she reached out, eyes darkening in warning Sherlock literally put his hand on her forehead and moved her backwards so she couldn't reach him with a teasing grin. Molly folded her arms and pouted.

"Of course…" Sherlock met eyes with Molly as he spoke into the mobile with evident politeness, "Yes, on the contrary _Mrs Hooper-"_

_Mrs Hooper._

_Sherlock's talking to my mum. _

_Shit, shit, shit, shit-_

Molly suddenly lashed out leaping of the bed and trying to grab the phone of him before he could finish his sentence. He held it above his head triumphantly and they could just about hear the woman in question asking things such as "Hello?" and "Is anyone there?" as they fought.

Molly began to prod the sides of his waist making him struggle, "Give. Me. The. Phone!"

Her mother still thought that Molly was spending Christmas working at St Bart's lab, and somehow she knew that Sherlock had worked this out and had decided to use it to his advantage. He was grinning at her like a grandiose teenager.

Sherlock stuck his tongue out and suddenly darted away with the leanness of a lynx. Molly clambered after him, ignoring her current state of dress- or lack of it- as she ran around the room.

Leaping over a plush settee and rolling over its side, Sherlock put the phone to his ear, "Golly I'm dreadfully sorry Mrs Hooper- _Lydia- _Your daughter is bidding for my affection and I simply refuse to 'give it to her' while I'm talking with you."

Molly froze. Her eyes doubled in size.

She lunged for him over the settee but he rolled off it with extreme precision. He jumped to his feet and stared at Molly in a heated stare.

Whichever way he ran, she could- and intended to- catch him.

She was so focused on where he was looking to plan escape she didn't register the fact that just like the few days ago he was stood in nothing but his boxers. She was _chasing _Sherlock in only shorts and bra whilst he only in boxers. If she had thought about it, she'd instantly lose her focus.

Sherlock gained the fact that she was waiting for him to move, so he began to talk again. "Now, now you needn't worry, we are protected. Yes, both her and I!" He threw his arms up in the air in a dramatic motion, before moaning and looking at Molly with a glint of animalism in his eyes as he whispered in an overlayed stage-voice, "_Oh Molly don't bite my neck like that you're driving me- Oh my!" _

Across the settee Molly shook her head dramatically as her jaw literally dropped.

_Oh, he was going to pay for that. _

"Mrs Holmes, I- I'm so sorry- Can we- _oh God Molly- _call you back?"

Sherlock was enjoying this so much he didn't see Molly grab her discarded shirt from the night before and clutch it tightly with her hands. Damn his childishness for his lack of ability in deduction.

He pretended to sound relieved "Thank you so much for understanding, yes- A_hh- _Okay, yes-"

He was blinded by purple fabric a second later. Molly leapt over the settee melodramatically and jumped quite literally on the detective knocking them both onto the carpet in a huge heap nearly taking the coffee table with them. There was a small silence as they just stared at each other, before bursting out laughing.

Sherlock's hands went unconsciously and pressed the 'end call' button on her mobile. Noticing his movement, Molly suddenly grabbed his arms and pinned them down, "Not now, Holmes. You are _not _escaping!" She laughed, leaning closer into him.

It was only in that moment that it hit Sherlock how close she had become, and how _suggestive t_he position was. Sure, he'd experienced physical intimacy in a whole new way with Molly but not like this- not _yet. _He clenched his jaw as heat began to sizzle in the pit of his stomach and his heart began to pound faster than it had been the moment before. His laughing was now forced as hers fell from her freely cascading her warm breath onto the hollow of his neck.

_His neck, for God's sake._

With her word, he would have made her his right there and then.

Once an efficient detective, now a giggling man in his underwear laid on carpet being straddled by a woman in underwear.

_God, _he thought, _I'm becoming like John._

They laid collapsed on each other in complete hysterics for a few moments, hearts thumping erratically at the exhilaration it had bought them. Molly, remembering what he did bought her back to reality and she suddenly thumped his bare chest, "What the hell were you thinking?" She screeched.

Molly's chest was pressed up against his.

"Christmas games. A family tradition." Responded Sherlock in a flat voice, pleading with his own manhood to not direct his gaze to the said chest.

Stingily her jaw tightened, "_What?"_

"I did it once before my voice broke," _Think unattractive thoughts!_ "I pretended to be a girl who Mycroft was making out with" _Anderson- Anderson in Bart's- Molly works in Bart's- Damn_ "When he was on the phone to his first girlfriend." A satisfied smirk fell on his face, "There was no wireless phones in the house, all I had to do was stand over his shoulder and moan. She broke up with him."

_Mycroft! That's it!_

With a near sigh of relief, the thought of his brother was all he needed to will away his inner animal.

"You, Sherlock, are cruel." Accused Molly with a pout.

"It's a game!"

"A _game?!" _Molly exclaimed, still trying to catch her breath and failing, "That's… You did it to my mum! My _mum_! As far as she knows I'm still as pure as the virgin Mary! You… You're a," She struggled for words, "wayward… Dog hearted… Barnacle!"

"I'm a wayward dog hearted barnacle."

"Don't question that."

Sherlock snorted, "What the hell does that mean?"

"Shush!" She instructed wishing she had a fan to will away her blush, she moved a finger to his chest and spat with playfulness the words, "I am _very _disappointed in you, Holmes."

"And you are_ very_ nearly popping out of your bra, Hooper."

Molly threw herself off him dramatically and he laughed. Awkwardly Molly wrapped her arms behind her back and readjusted herself but frowned and suddenly winced as pain shot down her back. Sherlock gained her reaction and sat up, "Are you alright?"

Molly nodded as she ran her hands on her back and winced a second time, Sherlock looked concerned now. Carefully Molly bought her hands back to her front and sighed as they were tainted with red liquid, "Dammit," She cursed playfully, "I must have hit my back when we just fell over."

She gestured to the mahogany coffee table to their right with frightfully sharp corners and a small shy laugh escaped her lips. Sherlock didn't smile like she was, he suddenly seemed void of emotion; he swallowed apprehensively and suddenly got up heading into the ensuite. Frowning, Molly got to her feet and walked over to the dressing table. She turned her back to it and peered over her shoulder. She'd cut herself directly on her right under the back strap of her bra. Silently, she cursed her clumsiness.

"I'll be fine!" She called to the detective.

Sherlock re-emerged from the bathroom after a beat holding a medical kit. Molly sighed, "There's really no need for that, honest."

"Take it off." He instructed flatly, he put the box he was holding on the dressing room table and opened it, rummaging through it's contents.

"Take what off?" Molly asked.

"Your bra," He omitted, not looking at her, "Take it off."

_Oh my God!_

Molly suddenly felt very conscious about her whole body and how exposed she was. "No, Sherlock, I shouldn't-"

"I have to dress that wound-"

"It's okay," She pleaded, "I can do it myself."

Pulling out some dressing he stared at her with a slightly judgmental essence, "From that angle? You'll make a mess of it."

"Sherlock, I don't think it's appropriate…" Her voice softened a little, and the detective lowered his eyebrows as he noticed the slight weakness in her voice.

He stood up next to her, and gently reached out resting a hand on her shoulder. She flinched and he let out a small breath, "You don't have to… Show me anything, if that's what you're worried about. I'll only have to see your back."

She blinked at him nervously, "Okay."

In silence, she turned her back to him and nervously reached around for the hook. At the movement she winced as pain shot down her spine and she closed her eyes. The next thing she felt was Sherlock cupping her hands in his, and then moving them to her sides.

"What are you doing?" Molly managed in a scarce whisper.

"Shh" He hushed into the crevice of her neck as Molly found herself feeling his hands unlatching the hook himself. As soon as it snapped heat raised to Molly's cheeks like lightning bolts and her stomach twisted, she could barely process what was going on. Sherlock didn't do anything else to remove it, he stood back a little and told her to take it off avoiding hurting herself. Without a word Molly let it fall down her arms and onto the floor as her arms then went instinctively to cover her breasts.

In the mirror, she caught Sherlock staring at her exposed back and swallowing hard at the sight. Then with a light shake of his head he reached from some tissue and began to clean her wound, "It's nothing bad," He told her, trying to keep his tone formal as the intimacy of the situation gnawed at him grotesquely, "The bleeding is only minimal," He put down the bloodied sheet to the side and reached for another pressing down on the wound; Molly winced and shut her eyes biting her lip as pain rocketed though her, "But it'll bruise and swell. You'll have to take some aspirin through routine during the day at appropriate intervals." He suddenly reached below the dressing table and Molly watched him duck near the bottom of her legs. He reached for something in front of them and spent a moment retrieving it and when he stood up he had ice in a bag in his hands; Sherlock pressed it to the wound carefully and a small moan escaped Molly at the feel of it.

"W-where did you get the ice from?" She gasped through clenched eyes.

He frowned a little, "The mini-freezer."

"Oh." She replied, she hadn't noticed they had one in the first place.

He held the ice to her back for a while, trying to stem the damage from swelling and after a while Molly found herself relaxing into the dressing table, leaning slightly forward as Sherlock did the same. The condensation from the ice bag began to precipitate and little drops of water began to streak down her back until being absorbed into the waistband of her shorts.

"What did you mean when you said that your mum think's you're like the virgin Mary?" Sherlock asked absently, glancing at her through the mirror.

Molly didn't look up as heat raised to her cheeks again. "I never tell her about any boyfriends, she takes the only logical step. We're not too close, especially after dad died."

He looked uncomfortable, and it hit Molly that he'd made a mistake of some sort mentally which now he was trying to resolve, "So… You're not a virgin?" His voice was deafly quiet.

Molly knitted her brow a little and stared at him through the mirror, he looked a bit too shocked at the realization. "I'm thirty-four, it'd be strange if I was."

There was a pause, "Oh."

"Why? …Did you think that I…?" She trailed off, feeling rather embarrassed and much more conscious than before.

"Well you've only had two partners, one from medical school and," he winced, "'Jim from IT'… I just always assumed it."

This was a terrible conversation to have stood topless holding onto her breasts, Molly thought. She didn't question how he knew about her first boyfriend, she guessed he'd just deduced it a long time ago. "You're not a virgin," She inputted gently, leaning further into the desk, "You have a daughter."

He smirked, "I know. Don't worry Molly it's not a problem, it's just I didn't think you weren't-"

"It's okay." She smiled weakly, "Don't worry about it."

Looking albeit relieved, Sherlock leant in and pressed a small kiss to her bare shoulder, she arched into him and very nearly dropped her arms.

The door opened.

There was a terrible long silence as light spilled into the bedroom from the hallway and Sherlock and Molly met eyes with who was stood there, staring at them with a whole mixture of expressions as they witnessed the scene before them.

Molly imagined herself sinking into a black hole and not returning as her mouth went dry from embarrassment.

_They really need locks on these doors._

Sherlock's mother, father, brother, daughter, and best friend were all there. In the silence they exchanged looks and shuffled.

"…It's not what it looks like." Sherlock said after a moment, knowing it was simply the most ludicrous thing to say as him and Molly stood there in nothing but underwear with him a moment ago kissing her shoulder. He should have heard their approaching footsteps. Silently he cursed Molly's beauty for dumbing down his senses, "Molly's cut her back. John, would you take a look?"

The army doctor stepped into the room, he was practically blushing at the sight, "Erm- Oh, okay."

"I was about to dress her wound." Sherlock muttered in a distant tone; he turned to Molly who looked near tears and told her, "Go and lie on the bed face down and let John fix you up."

She didn't say anything and did exactly as he said. John looked at Sherlock with a million thoughts running through his head, before taking the medical kit and going to Molly's side, beginning to dress her wound up switching into full doctor mode.

As he did this, Sherlock reached for his dressing gown for the sake of his decency and frowned at the Holmes' in front of him. "What do you all want?"

Adelaide stepped past him tossing her hair over her shoulders, "We're skyping mum in five minutes."

Sherlock groaned.

"Merry Christmas to you too." She teased, sitting down at his dressing table as if she owned the place.

Mycroft glanced at his parents who looked disgusted and then moved past them, raising his head a little, "Prince William sends his festivities," He said, "I suggest you respond by email."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John who was applying gauze to Molly's back guffawed, "What did you say?"

Mycroft sneered at the army doctor, "As in Mountbatten-Windsor, or Wales if you prefer. Childhood acquaintances of ours."

John blanched, his jaw dropping a little. He turned to his friend with wide eyes, "You know Prince William?"

Sherlock pouted "Hardly. A few play-dates when we were younger, he's six years younger than me; A scarcely suitable candidate for a childhood _friend."_

"You shouldn't speak of him that way," Interjected Violet Holmes, entering the room fully as Theodore still lingered in the doorway, "You two used to get on very well, I remember. You both wanted to be pirates-"

"How do you know him?" John questioned eagerly.

Mycroft stood forward to explain, "Daddy was raised as a Lord but was the third youngest of his brothers, although they were raised to be fine acquaintances with the Royal family daddy then moved into another business abandoning his title and instead modernising as a Holmes', but because the families had been friends for generations beforehand we haven't abandoned contact with many of the royals." Mycroft looked smug, "It pays off in my work, of course."

The detective rolled his eyes at that and John let out a nervous laugh, "I swear you don't tell me anything, Sherlock."

"There isn't much to tell." Omitted the man with a shrug glancing at Mycroft before John could retort the last comment, "Anything else you were wanting, brother?"

Mycroft balanced on the heels of his shoes a little, "Just a request."

Sherlock sagged.

"You know what I'm about to ask, I presume."

"Of course I do. And the answer is, as it always is, that I can't promise anything."

John watched the exchange with a certain understanding of what this request probably was as he reached for Molly's dressing gown and handed it to her professionally which she quickly sat up and wrapped around her body whilst her back was to everyone in the room.

"Sherlock, please," Interjected Violet in a motherly tone, "Your father and I try hard at these parties to make a good impression and you shouldn't have to have this impertinent need to cause chaos."

At the mention of his father Sherlock briefly glanced at the man in the doorway who was brushing a thumb over his moustache. He hadn't seen him since the argument the day before and immediately forced any eye contact away before he got angry at his very presence in the room.

"Mummy," Sherlock started, exasperated, "The chaos is always caused by itself and not me. People see me and immediately presume that there's going to be drama so subconsciously create this tension with then leads to the disputes. It's the placebo effect. I do nothing in the room but supply my being and then everyone is at each other's throats."

She sighed dejectedly, "…At least promise me you'll _try."_

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Of course, mummy."

"He's lying," Contradicted Theodore Holmes suddenly from the doorway with a hidden ferocity, Sherlock swallowed and Molly suppressed the urge she had to head over and smack the old man, "He always causes the tension and he knows it. The Boy enjoys it, Violet- Don't you think it'd be better if we simply banned him from showing up?"

"What? After he faked his death?" She exclaimed, "Theodore, dear, family and friends are expecting him."

"I'm not up for display." Sherlock muttered quietly with a sigh.

"Yes you are, Sherlock" Mycroft instated in a proper manner, one he always embodied when working or when his father was around, "The whole family is on display and you are part of it."

"Why should I make a display of myself if you wish me to lie to everyone about my death?" The questioned was abrupt, and for a moment the other Holmes' looked disarmed.

Theodore rolled his eyes, "If you're deducing us could you please have the decency to tell us you're doing so?"

"I have decency," Contradicted the detective, "Hence why I'm not afraid to be honest to people about what I see, like _you." _

"Sherlock." Mycroft warned with a dark glare.

Mrs Holmes sat down on the settee and gave her children a hopeless glance, "Don't look at me like that, Sherlock. It's simply a… Polite fiction to inform people what exactly you've done during your death; We can't possibly tell them that you were dismantling a terrorist network that the government failed to." She glanced at Mycroft, "All that unpleasantness!"

"It's undermining my name, the government; also it's classified information" Mycroft began to lecture, "For the sake of our family name you must keep your mouth shut."

"So what do I say then?" Questioned Sherlock openly, "Because believe me, they'll ask and I don't like to lie to relatives." His tone was slightly mocking and everyone in the room knew that by being honest he could stir up conflict, so that was why he was doing it. Also, Sherlock had been away destroying Moriarty's network for over a year, it felt offensive that after all that time of suffering he had to lie about it to everyone else. "Or would you rather me not go because me dismantling a criminal network makes me to embarrassing for you?"

Violet tightened her lips, "This is a family event and we're all going to enjoy it together. Now Mycroft stop scowling and help us think of an alibi for your brother."

Sherlock feigned meek interest, "You could say I joined a cult and had to rehabilitate me back to normal life after Moriarty disabled my mind and manhood."

John and Molly exchanged a look of frustration as Sherlock's voice permeated the walls.

"Well! That would certainly spare the family some embarrassment," Muttered Theodore sarcastically, "Why not fill in a killing spree too? It wouldn't surprise anyone-"

"Theodore!"

"Daddy-" Mycroft started.

Sherlock huffed and turned his head slightly sideways; clenching his fists just a little. Warily, Molly caught his eyes for a moment before he looked back.

"Here's a thought," Adelaide cut in from her place suddenly, shocking everyone to remembering she was in the room, "You could always said he'd served for the armed forces, serving acts against terrorism that way; it relates to his work as a detective and explains the elongated absence without pointing out that any threats were towards this country in any shape or form. When asked about why he disowned his own name he simply says it was for the sake of the government whilst he worked over seas and that there was no alternative giving the extent of the situation."

There was a brief, wavering silence as the group stared at the youngest Holmes.

With hesitance, Mycroft breathed, "That may just work."

The 'forbidden child' grinned at her uncle as Theodore suddenly left with a loud grunt, apparently appalled that she'd helped them in a family drama and Violet Holmes struggled after him.

"What do you say, Sherlock?"

"Fine." Omitted the detective, "But don't expect me to behave."

"Oh," Mycroft droned stalking out of the room, "You know I never do."

He shut the door behind him as he left and Sherlock visibly relaxed. "Idiots." He spat, before looking despairingly over at his friends, "Molly are you alright now?"

"She'll be fine," John answered for her.

Molly was still embarrassed and could only give him a weak smile as a response.

"Dad," Adelaide called over her shoulder, initiating Skype; Sherlock went over to her courtly.

As he did this, John turned to Molly and smiled, "I know about you and Sherlock."

"Y-You do?"

"He told me," He explained softly, but then a glimmer of mischief showed up in his eyes, "Shall I ask how you cut your back? Or is better for my sanity if I didn't?"

Molly swallowed awkwardly, "It's not what you're thinking, no."

He looked disappointed; he'd wanted something to jibe at his friend for during Christmas dinner. "Alright."

The pair were distracted when they heard an unfamiliar woman's voice speak through a machine. "Sherlock, Adelaide," She greeted with a voice warm in an unfamiliar accent.

Peering over, they saw the woman was blonde like Adelaide with a round face and bright blue eyes; she was without a doubt the girl's mother, and it was then they saw her that they began to differentiate between what of Sherlock's features Adelaide had inherited and what of her mother's.

Adelaide began to talk to her mother in Lithuanian excitedly, telling her things that the other woman laughed at and that some occasional points Sherlock would grunt at or make a sarky comment about- In Lithuanian- Neither Molly or John had known he could speak the language at all, never mind fluently.

* * *

**Later**

_I'm in the yellow drawing room for pre-drinks with women.  
How are you?  
-Molly_

_The man are tiresome like every year.  
Bored.  
-SH_

_I'll be joining you soon, don't worry.  
I have some drama for you.  
-Molly_

_Pray do tell.  
-SH_

_Two potential adulterers and a political scandal that Mycroft cannot be informed of.  
The maid is sleeping with a man named Walter? (Name may be wrong.)  
Frederick's wife isn't here.  
-Molly_

_Frederick is not present too.  
The political scandal is the adulterers, fabulous.  
Walter's not sleeping with the maid; he's sleeping with the butler.  
How are you getting this information? Have you been deducing?  
-SH_

_I can't deduce people.  
-Molly_

_Then where have you gotten all this gossip from?  
Who has told you this?  
-SH_

_I'm with a group of upper-class women, champagne, and port.  
They talk.  
-Molly_

Blinking at his phone, Sherlock grinned and slipped it back into his pocket.

John swept to his side, champagne in his hand, "Who are you texting?"

"Molly." Sherlock replied flatly, pulling at his cuffs eagerly, "Dinner's going to be fun."

John quirked an eyebrow, "What do you mean?"

"Oh nothing John, look at you so paranoid. Your funny little brain must be so confused."

Pausing for a moment, the army doctor drank some champagne and swallowed it, "Yes, it is, actually."

Sherlock simply chuckled at him as a stout man swaddled up to him in greeting, "Sherlock Holmes! And here was me thinking that you'd been dead all along."

Plastering a polite smile on his face, Sherlock extended his palm, "Godfather Donaldson of course. I'd like to introduce you to my dear friend, Captain John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. John, Lord Donaldson is an army man himself."

Lingering over the title of _Lord, _John held out his own hand to the well-built middle-aged man "It's a pleasure, thank you."

* * *

"You're Sherlock's friend, aren't you?" Pried a middle-aged woman snobbily, pulling her dress up to stop expelling her cleavage, "I read about you in the newspaper. Everyone thinking you were together-"

A younger woman who sat next to Marie looked up, "He's in a relationship Doctor Watson, isn't he?"

A couple of women gasped.

"No, I mean- It's obvious, isn't it? Surely you've heard the stories Miss Hooper?"

"Are they true?" Piped up another, "I never thought Sherlock was gay, in fact I thought he's as asexual as a plank of wood."

Several laughs chorused.

"H-He's not with John," Stammered Molly, "They're just friends."

A few noises were heard at that, some of approval and others of disgust as they were thrown back into square one of discovering what Sherlock's romantics' interests were. No-one questioned what her relationship was to him and that shocked her. It was as if they looked at her and instantly labelled her as 'not his type' because she was mousey and despite the hilariously extravagant frock she'd been forced to wear she still somehow appeared plain.

Appearing plain among the upper-class was never a good thing, she felt as if she were being judged constantly under their lubricating gazes.

A rather audacious woman with puckered lips approached her and held out a hand. She had acid green eyes that held a level of untruth in them, and Molly felt that anything she would say this woman would spill out to the ensemble, "Mrs Christine Castleton," She introduced herself in a sly tone, "And you are?"

"Molly, Molly Hooper- Doctor, Molly Hooper." Molly had never felt as implied to use her title as a Doctor so completely before.

The woman upturned her nose a little as she released the pathologists palm quickly, "Do forgive me darling but you don't mind me asking if Sherlock is attending dinner?"

"…He is, why- Why wouldn't he?"

"I heard the family disowned him after he came back because he'd made up Moriarty," Molly winced at that, "I heard he lost his temper and hit Theodore. I asked Mycroft about it and he wouldn't say a word. I'm his assistant; one of his assistants."

Somewhere a brief wave of anger washed over Molly, "He isn't as… Angry, as people are making out. He's not as violent either."

Marie, only hearing half of the conversation looked up, "Didn't he drop a burglar out of his window a few years ago?"

"I, uh, I'm not sure."

Marie with a salacious grin slid up from her seat and went to stand next to Molly, eyeing up Christine in distaste. She spun the liquid in her wine glass smoothly, remarking, "I'd be careful what you hear, Christine," She began, "This family is horrendously susceptible to propaganda."

"Of course," Agreed the woman.

"But our family is also open to unbidden truths, and Sherlock is a brave man for bringing them into the light of day. Like your…" There was a pause, "Botox, and affair with…" Another pause, Marie looked quite puzzled; she knitting her brow and leant inwards, whispering "Mycroft? No wonder you're invited. Dear me, dear me."

The woman stared with wide eyes for a moment, before she murmured "Excuse me." And left as quickly as she could.

Marie laughed darkly and turned to Molly who looked astounded.

"She's sleeping with Mycroft?" Somehow the thought of Mycroft sleeping with anyone was off-putting, she'd never seen a man- Despite Sherlock's father- display such a presence of unfeeling and emotion.

"Yes, he is."

"How did you work that out?"

"You mean apart from her natural hatred towards Sherlock, amazing interest and politics over the past year and by the fact that I saw her in his room last night as I headed to my chamber? It was an easy deduction."

Molly blinked at her, "You can deduce people?"

Marie placed down her wine and rolled her eyes, "Sherlock tried to pass on his skill to me when we were younger. I could never do it, but it has made me pay very good attention to detail when I need to." With a smug grin, she continued, "Oh, I love this family; everyone is either corrupt or fooling around. Isn't it wonderful?"

Molly hastily swallowed some more of her champagne, "Of all the people, I'd have never guessed Mycroft."

"Oh don't be so sure Molly," Marie grinned wildly, "It's not the first time. But last time it was with the husband of the same marriage- I don't know if that's still going on, actually…"

Molly's jaw dropped.

"Poor Christine never found out; either that or they're working around some polyamorous relationship and I don't quite think that is what's going on."

Stunned into silence, all she could do was nod.

* * *

Christmas dinner was served in the State Dining Room. On her previous night's at the Holmes' estate, they had dined in the 'Guest Dining Room' which was smaller for the finer amount of guests. Now, Molly's jaw fought to stay closed at the sight of the room she came into.

The room was a huge suite with paintings draped down either side of individuals and ensembles in old-fashioned dress from Georgian to late Victorian. There was one singular long table that extended far ahead what she had ever presumed as an _appropriate _length for a table; Molly assumed it must have taken fifty people at least. Every place was laid properly and regally as if ready for Royalty, and several glasses accompanied every seat. At the edge of the room stood a team of six footmen all ready with trays ready to move around the group. It nearly made the pathologist tremble as she made her way to her designated seat.

It was the women who had entered first, and Molly found herself thankfully near the one's she knew to a degree. Violet Holmes was near the head of the table two seats down, and Marie was next to her so diagonal to Molly. Christine Castleton sat further down the table and she recognised Agatha and Ronette (_discreet boob job Ronette, as Sherlock had called her), _sitting further down too. Near the other end of the table Adelaide sat, and Molly felt rather saddened that despite her travelling across Europe to spend Christmas with her father the Holmes' still refused her a seat near him for dinner. There were many other women here too, probably more friends of the family with status rather than real relatives to Sherlock. Molly wondered how many of them he'd actually know and then thought hit her of how Sherlock had experienced Christmas so differently to her own probably from an early age. Molly's Christmases had always been an affair for her close family only in a small intimate space with no pressure to act accordingly just to be herself, at least until her father had died. With the immense pressure of playing the part for this meal, Molly realized she missed those Christmases.

She even missed the one Christmas they had spent at 221B, and that had been the most humiliating night of her life.

Suddenly the main doors swung open again, and where Molly had expected the men instead came a small bunch of children.

Two of them in particular ran up to Marie and she hugged them delightedly as they chorused about what presents they had received and demanding to see 'Cousin Sherlock'. Marie had clearly raised them to call him that name although that wasn't their relation. Watching the exchange, Molly felt it completely old-fashioned. The fact that a mother could love her children so much and yet not be with them on Christmas morning astounded her beyond belief.

Marie Holmes bidded a fond farewell to her children and they were all ushered by a motherly looking woman to the far end of the table. As Sherlock's cousin watched them gallivant of she glanced at Molly who was staring, "Adorable, aren't they? I must introduce you to my husband."

Molly smiled weakly in return, but somehow felt even more alienated then she had done beforehand.

Finally, the men came in in all their tailored glory met by the stares women who seemed to be absorbing their wealth in the light of their eyes. With a small shrug John took the seat next to Molly, "Never thought I'd be in such grand stupor" He joked quietly.

"Nice suit, John."

"I could say the same about your dress, Molls."

Molly laughed but then her smile faded, she blinked, "John, where's Sherlock?"

It occurred to her that the seat opposite her and next to Marie remained vacant, a seat which adorned the label _Sir S. T. Holmes._

The army doctor pouted but then smiled at Molly in reassurance, "He's coming. But he's the guest of honour, he has to wait outside."

"Why?"

"Because he is _second _Holmes since the 16th century to fake his death although the family didn't take the name Holmes back then. He's re-enacted family history."

Drawing her attention to the vast portraits across the walls, she murmured "So they're going to praise him for it?"

"Probably not, Molls. They just want to make a spectacle of him," He told her quietly, "He is he's very angry about it, especially when he can't even speak the truth."

The thought of Sherlock being angry at such a tense social event worried her, especially when taking into account how close his seat was to his father's. Their attention was drawn away as Mrs Holmes pushed herself to her feet and clicking a fork against a glass. She began to speak to the group regally about the joys of Christmas, and more importantly the significance of tradition. Slowly, her conversation moved ahead into the recital of the Lord's prayer which Molly silently thanked her young Sunday School lessons of teaching her. Afterwards, Violet began to discuss the topic of her youngest son, explaining that he had 'gone away and dissolved his identity' to destroy a terrorist network under the armed forces that held no threat to British soil or his integrity and yet he had still gone like a valiant.

It was a lie that was laced with truth, just like when Moriarty had destroyed his name. John hoped that Sherlock wouldn't make the connection.

"So may I wish back into our amidst with all the finest love a mother can have, my son, Sherlock." Violet began to applaud and everyone else joined in.

The clapping continued as the door's swung open; Sherlock was dressed in a fine suit like the rest, but Molly couldn't help but notice that he'd avoided a bow-tie so that his collar lay slightly open.

It was a simple sign of rebellion, but one nonetheless.

For a moment the detective scowled, before he did something that neither John or Molly had expected. He forced a lean smile and pretended to appreciate the applause as he glided into the room. He nodded in thanks and even patted the shoulders of a few of the guests, working his way around the relatives (some who didn't smile at him) to the non-relatives and the women who his parents had once been inept in courting him with who ogled over his sureness as if he were a God making Molly's stomach drop a little. Eventually he worked his way around to his seat and pulled himself into it gracefully as the clapping died away and Mrs Holmes acknowledged the footman that Christmas dinner should be served.

As soon that happened the guests began to talk among themselves, Sherlock's smile was whipped from his face in an instant.

"Idiots. The lot of them either hate me or are obsessed with me: The usual crowd." He muttered quietly as Marie looked at him for a moment and rolled her eyes.

"Don't worry," She told him a sticky tone, "It'll be over soon."

He reached for the port he'd been given and took a significant drink, willing the Christmas dinner to go as soon as it had arrived.

* * *

"So you've actually been in Karachi this entire time?" Quizzed an elderly man smacking his lips greedily whilst his hand laid uncomfortably on the detective's shoulder.

"It would seem so, Lord Finnegan." Responded Sherlock flatly, not looking over.

"Well you certainly created a raucous of your suicide back here," He informed Sherlock noisily, "Did you know that some people had the negligence to believe that _you _created that Moriarty fellow? What poppy-cock!" He laughed.

Sherlock still didn't look over and didn't reply, he felt ridiculous; with one glance at the man he knew that the man had believed that.

Theodore from the head of the table peered downwards, fork in his hands as he added, "It's beguiling isn't it where some people's minds will go?"

"Quite." Replied Sherlock stiffly.

After a beat Lord Finnegan pulled on his lapels and went back to his end of the table. As soon as he did Sherlock looked up at John and Molly, "This is ridiculous. All of it, it's humiliating."

"What you did when you were dead was a momentous thing, just because they don't know it in full truth doesn't mean they don't appreciate it." Molly told him gently.

"I did it for John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. Not for the sake of law and order in another country." He contradicted.

Subconsciously Molly dropped her cutlery and briefly reached over to cup his hands. He recoiled as several people looked over. The pathologist winced at her mistake and it stung because just this morning he had been so affectionate, "Sherlock-"

"Shh-" He cut in abruptly, silencing her. Something had caught his attention further down the table.

"So I say, I would like to propose a toast!" Dwight Castleton inducted raising a glass to those around him, "To couples who have the same job but don't let it ruin their romantic life!"

There was several glasses clinked together and several calls of 'Quite' and 'Here, here!' among the soft laughs of the ensemble.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John asked carefully, seeing the slight pull of his lips.

"So!" Announced the detective suddenly to the said group, "Dwight, Christine, you must tell me what it is like working for my brother together. Mycroft informs me you've met many established people."

_Sherlock had worked the affair out._

"Really?" Cut in Marie Holmes, glancing over, "You must tell us, what is it like working for so many long hours? So many nights?"

Both Christine and Dwight appeared a little stumped at the question, sharing a glance before looking over at the Holmes'.

"What's this about?" John asked Molly quietly, as the married couple began to speak in their best 'people' voices.

Molly sighed, "They're _both _sleeping with Mycroft apparently-"

"What?!"

"Keep your voice down," Molly told him swiftly, "He's only a couple of seats away."

Mycroft was sat in deep conversation with his parents, not noticing what was going on.

"But wouldn't it make sense for my brother to take you both away on the same long distance trips? Rather than one at a time?" Questioned the detective, feigning confusion, "Surely, you could spend more time together then?"

There was a pause. Slowly, Christine said with a pleasant smile, "Even with our work it's better to have some… Distance, with our relationship. It gives us time to explore new things."

Dwight was cutting his turkey but his hands stilled slightly, he blinked at his wife, "…New things? Like what?"

"Oh," She shuffled awkwardly, "I don't know, new places, new ways of life…" She trailed off.

At that moment Mycroft raised from his seat and slunk silkily over to the couple, "I should be thanking you both for being here. All the long hours you spend working with me, I do appreciate it."

They both broke out into huge grins, noticed each other and then pulled them back. Sherlock smirked and turned his attention back to his food. Molly puzzled at him, and when he noticed her, all he did was wink.

Dwight blinked at his lover as he said "I wasn't too fond of the events in Venice, but-"

"Oh," Mycroft started, "Christine mentioned that to you?"

She began to blush.

"Yes. She thought I was crazy for overreacting about it."

They were playing the 'happy couple'; and all of Molly, Sherlock, John and Marie were all shocked at the very concept of Mycroft walking up to them for conversation given what was going on.

Marie knitted her brow in genuine interest as she urged her cousin on, "What happened in Venice, Mycroft? Do tell."

Mycroft smiled a little. This was actually the story of the events that had led to Christine's side of the affair in the first place, and one she could tell if she ignored the fact of what happened afterwards. "I understand a bad reaction, Dwight; Someone carries your unconscious wife to their own bed-"

Christine blanched.

Dwight pulled back a little, "What?"

The woman tightened her lips a little and looked up at Mycroft warningly. He did a double take. This wasn't the story she had told her husband, then. "In Venice when she had a dizzy turn in my hotel... What were you talking about?"

"…When you were in that political meeting and one of the men requested she travelled with him, but you told him that she was yours…" Dwight trailed off, stomach turning a little.

Mycroft recoiled, turning to Christine, "You told him about that?"

"What's going on here?" Dwight questioned.

She didn't answer. "Full disclosure, Christine. That's what a marriage is all about; so they know you're not hiding anything."

"I was just worried afraid you'd overreact like you're clearly doing right now-"

Dwight bit his lip, "Well shouldn't I be a bit thrown off by the fact that Mycroft carried you to his bed," His eyes raised onto the man slowly, "He swings both ways, he could have made an advance at you."

"Excuse me-" Mycroft guffawed.

It was the truth.

Christine gasped, "Since when are you _gay_?"

The man began to blush violently.

"Since when does he swing the _other _way?" Christine asked again, as her eyes focused on Mycroft as well; she leant inwards a little and shook her head, gazing at the Holmes man with a sense of pure intimacy in her eyes, "Tell me Dwight's mistaken Mycroft. Tell me, please."

They were met by a strong silence around everyone who could hear them.

Dwight looked stung, he stood up abruptly and gazed at Mycroft with a vicious sting in his eyes. It hit him then in his wife's confusion. It hit him that he'd been played. "You bastard," He managed, his voice slipping into a slightly higher pitch, "You foul bisexual bastard!"

He stormed off.

Mycroft's expression broke suddenly, he looked hurt, he went after him, "Dwight, wait!"

Several heads turned as Mycroft followed his lover hopelessly out of the room. Faster on his heels than usual with desperation on his face, many people had never seen him look so emotional.

As it dawned on Christine what had gone on just then. She'd seen the love in Dwight's eyes as he left, and the pure guilt in Mycroft's. She left without a word, murmuring something incoherent.

It was terribly awkward after that.

John swallowed and looked back over to Sherlock, "That wasn't good, Sherlock. Not good at all."

"It was going to come out eventually anyway," He snapped, drinking more wine, "Better do it now because the longer they kept it on the more it'd hurt."

Violet blinked as her eyes were now trained on her son, "Sherlock, what in God's name have you done?"

She hadn't heard the whole exchange, she'd only seen Mycroft chase after Dwight desperately, reaching out for his hand as he did. Sherlock cocked his head to the side innocently, "I've done nothing wrong."

"That doesn't tell me anything," She said strictly, straightening her back, "That means you've still done something."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, you promised you would behave." Interjected Theodore Holmes darkly.

"And you promised you wouldn't make a spectacle out of me, same difference_, Father_."

"You watch your mouth, young man."

"Theodore, please-" Violet told her husband softly, seeing the tightening of his jaw, "-Not here. Not at Christmas."

A small grunt left the older man's throat, as if for a moment his outward public appearance had slipped but he reigned it back in and returned to his food. Sherlock stilled briefly, before returning back to his own in silence. He looked up towards Molly, and then took a lighter tone, "You look lovely."

The friendliness in his voice shocked her, he had been so angry just a moment before. Unable to hide her blush and giggle as the centre of the Holmes family dawned into shock at his complement she managed a small, "You do, too."

"I must take you walking around the grounds later," Sherlock continued, cold eyes warm, "Once all the parties' commotion has dispersed."

"Sherlock? You are aware that there are many more eligible suitors here for you to fool around with. Rather than this… Woman."

Silence.

Sherlock froze completely and paled. Instinctively, Marie Holmes reached out and put her smooth hand on his arm. Molly pulled back a little her eyes lowering as John's eyebrows raised considerably. "What did you say?" Sherlock managed in a soft voice, laced with offence.

Theodore put down his cutlery and stared at his son factually, "You do realize that given this woman's class that nothing can happen between the two of you."

"Theodore, no-"

Sherlock blinked dubiously and waved his mother off with his hand, "No, please, carry on."

"We allowed her here under the premises of her being a friend and nothing more. She isn't one of us and I will not stand for it-"

"This isn't the middle ages-"

"I do not stand for her insulting me in more ways than possible, you've corrupted her into believing you are a good man," Theodore Holmes scoffed, "I never heard such trivia."

Marie's head shot around, "_Uncle!"_

"Sherlock hasn't corrupted me, he's made me better." Gainsaid Molly quietly; she didn't want to lose her temper like the day before, and the look that Sherlock was giving her was telling her that he didn't want her to either. Nevertheless the predisposition she had to protect Sherlock began to bubble inside her like a kettle reaching boiling point.

"Made you better how? By making you his _play thing_? Please, Doctor Hooper. We're talking about a man who faked his death for the sake of sentiment." Theodore's tone was practically pleasant, and it just made it more hurtful, "The fact that you can take him to bed without a second word proves to me that you are less intelligent than I thought you were."

"_Play thing."_ Sherlock repeated incredulously.

"She has no proper etiquette. Look at her, Sherlock; she's ignorant, pathetic. Even in her ruined state you stand here and tell me how you are worthy of her. Because even as she fools around in a pigs barn is she so much more than you."

"Sweetheart, don't you think it's time for your medication?" Violet asked in a small voice, her expression wavering a little. Nifty the older woman reached out for her husband's port glass but he held it steady in his palm.

Theodore Holmes didn't acknowledge Violet during the movement, he just stared at his son as if he were alien, watching as he thought and thought over everything and then his stomach dropping as he could find no argument. Molly stared at him, her eyes drawn and wide as tears threatened to spill. Sherlock's face twisted in thought, and he suddenly began to feel hot.

Molly was so much more than him and she deserved so much better. He on the other hand, didn't deserve anyone.

"_You stupid, no-good boy!"_

_Countless of sobs escaped the boy's throat as he was kicked to the expensive floor. He pulled in on himself and forced his eyes closed, "D-Daddy-"_

_He could feel his father's shadow blanketing over him as he approached, "No! You're unworthy!" _

John watched his friend worriedly as the silence persisted and anger built up inside him at what this man risked to say about his best-friend. He looked at the old man defiantly, "How dare you," Began John, moving a hand on Molly's shoulder, "How dare you bring us in to this home and then insult them as if they're dirt."

There was a pause, Theodore sat back, "You're different, Doctor Watson. You're a real man, a war hero, and I'm sorry you've had to take companionship in The Boy's madness and faults."

"I'm so much more with Sherlock than I ever was in the war, you pillock." His voice raised at the last words, and people began to look over.

Violet gasped at John's language.

Sherlock winced, "John-"

"You seriously expect me to sit here and take this?!" Exploded the army Doctor, "You have no right to pretend you know him and have the rights to offend him in the open. I penalised him for not wanting to come here for Christmas, I made him do it." He turned to his friend who wasn't looking up, "Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I wasn't aware your family was so unconscious of its own problems."

_"J-John-"_

"Sherlock are you alright?" Marie asked in a gasp.

Theodore laughed, "I misjudged you, I see. The boy's made you ignorant as well. You're as bad his _woman."_

"Stop it!" Sherlock yelled, slamming his hands on the table so loud the cutlery trembled and wine spilled within a two foot radius. It went silent, the whole room went silent. His arm trembled and he didn't look up. Automatically Molly, John and Marie all stood up reaching out to him.

"I…" Sherlock breathed, not reacting to anything, "Molly, I think I'm about to be sick."

"God," She gasped quietly, he suddenly rushed from the room; Molly gave a John a hopeless look before running after the detective.

After another silence from all the guests they began to look around each other in confusion.

"Would anyone like some more gravy?" Violet offered in a small voice, plastering a smile on to her face although her hands were trembling.

"Well," Theodore muttered to himself rather than the party far from hearing range of a majority of them, "That confirms one thing. The boy was better off dead."

"Bastard!"

Theodore Holmes would have not been able to miss the fist flying into the trajectory of his face from John Watson if he had tried.

* * *

"Sherlock! Wait! Where are you…" After fleeing up two flights of stairs the detective had ran down a distant corridor- one Molly hadn't seen since she had arrived- She was confused, but she ran after him kicking her heels off half way and lugging her dress in her hands.

At the end of the corridor Sherlock span through a doorway, and Molly came through it a moment later.

She gasped.

The room was dark and dusty, with soft blue walls and a small bed perched in the far corner. Disregarding this, it was like a smaller version of 221B Bakerstreet.

Small bookshelves lined the walls filled with thin reads and only a couple thicker books. There was one smaller box that clearly hadn't been opened in years next to the bed which Sherlock tore himself to sit on as Molly stood in awe, it was labelled _Sherlock's Toys. _Rotating on her feet without even realising her eyes fell upon a small desk, and above it lay pictures of pirates drawn in crayon displayed on the wall proudly. There was a comic on the desk, and Molly couldn't even help the laugh that escaped her throat as her eyes settled upon it: _Batman Detective Comics, 1980._

"I was going through a phase."

Sherlock's voice made her jump from her daydream and settle on to the pale detective who was staring at her with sullen eyes. Molly blinked away the emotion rising in her chest and she did all she could so. She sat beside Sherlock and hugged him tight. "You're not feeling ill, are you?" She whispered into his shoulder.

"No," He replied, thumbing his hands through her hair, "God, I used to do that all the time when I was a little." She couldn't see his face and was glad for it, she knew him talking about something like this was only possible if some part of him felt alone, "I-I used to panic so much…"

"It's okay," Molly soothed, bringing a hand to settle on his cheek.

"I always used to run back here, it must have been around thirty years since I've last done it, I don't know what's wrong with me. I only had this room until I was seven… It was a mistake coming here."

Molly released herself from his embrace but held onto his arms firmly, "Sherlock, it wasn't, and it's okay to show weakness once in a while."

"This isn't weakness, it's mental instability; Father was right."

"No, don't say that." She told him with a hint of bitterness in her voice, Sherlock winced and she immediately tried to correct herself, "You're so much better than you let yourself believe."

He snorted in disbelief and slowly tilted his head to the side, "My bassinet is there, Molly."

She turned behind her to see what he was looking at and gasped, it was so dark and withdrawn into the background she never would have noticed it. Glancing at Sherlock for a brief second, she slid of the bed to look at it. It had aged and the colour had been lost, but Molly saw it would have once been a rich blue with a cream ribbon around the rim with fabric trailing down to the floor beneath her. Nothing was in it, no baby mattress or pillows; either way it made Molly feel rather broody and smile uncontrollably. Sherlock had once been a baby, he'd been a child and he had grown up. For some reason that was a very strange thing to consider when thinking about him, and it made her heart lurch. The whole room was a snapshot of his childhood drifting away in time, and Molly felt so lucky to have touched it's surface.

She felt a heavy presence shift behind her and arms wrap around her waist, and Molly was surprised at how… _sentimental_ the contact was.

"Don't cry" Sherlock breathed into her ear and she could hear the smirk in his voice, an emotional laugh left Molly and she turned around slowly so he was holding her to him.

Without hesitation, she drew him in for a kiss.

Somehow Molly felt that it was all he needed, some physical contact and reassurance that he was a good man and the opposite of what his father was trying to say. After a moment Molly went to pull away from him but one of Sherlock's hands went straight to her hair, "No" he breathed, pressing her closer. Sherlock wanted to forget all his pain and horrific memories from his childhood, all the offence he got just for his talents, and all the fears that constantly plagued him.

A gasp escaped Molly as a certain dominance took over him, he seemed to get more focused and technical with every passing moment she worried she couldn't keep up with him. With skilful hands the detective began to skim the neckline of her dress.

He wanted more, he wanted to be closer.

"Sherlock-"

_"Molly."_ Without warning the detective spun her around and pushed her hard against the bedroom wall as a thick predatory growl escaped his throat. Sherlock closed the distance between them but Molly suddenly let out a sharp gasp of pain.

He let go of her so abruptly Molly very nearly lost her footing, an uncontrollable tear escaping her eyes, "My back," She wheezed breathlessly, before looking at him, "You just hit my back on the wall, that's all."

_He was thrown against the wall with force. The same patch of blue wall over and over, sobbing as it began to get splattered in a dark red shade. The angry man towered over him, and Sherlock didn't understand what he had done wrong._

"_D-Daddy!"_

"_Father." The man corrected in a thick growl lavished with hatred, "It's Father!" _

Towering over Molly's small frame, he recoiled. He physically stepped back, his face unreadable until one emotion finally developed through his opaque enigma: hurt.

Molly softened suddenly and reached out to him, "Sherlock, what is it? What's-"

He fled the room before she got him.

* * *

Molly didn't know how long she sat there on Sherlock's childhood bed, tears streaming down her face as all the stress of the day laid down on her like a set of mines. All she did know was that during the entire time she did that she wanted her father.

God, she needed him badly.

Eventually she had fallen asleep, a bad move on her part because after she woke up she had no desire to move. She simply sat there in a dull haze until a soft knock at the door distracted her.

"Molly? Are you in here?"

Immediately the pathologist wiped her eyes desperately and tried to calm herself down, "Y-yes."

The door was pushed open slowly and a very worn looking Mycroft stared at her. Remembering what had happened at dinner her heart broke at the sight of how fragmented he looked so unlike his usual lean and urbane self. In an awkward silence, he slowly made his way over to Sherlock's bed and sat down, his hands wrapped together tightly. He hung his head low before looking at her muttering, "Men, huh? Confusing idiots."

A shaky laugh escaped her, but she was entirely disarmed by how his voice had changed so much. She'd never seen him like this, and she doubted many other people had either. Even though the premises of his conflict was in fact his self, Molly still couldn't help but feel sorry for him because it had all came out on Christmas of all days, and he was clearly hurting. Softly, she leant out and rested her hand on his own, and he seemed surprised at the gesture "Are you alright?" She asked gently.

Mycroft let out a rough sigh and stared blankly ahead, "I will be."

It was silent for a few moments after that, but Molly didn't take her hand away, somehow she felt the simple gesture and simply asking how he was had given him more support than he usually would have gotten.

"I'm surprised you're not with Sherlock, you did hear about what happened?" His voice was regretful, but not overly emotional, as if although dissolved he was still clutching at the strings of his thick curtain he hid behind.

Molly furrowed her brow, "What do you mean?"

"Daddy hit him," Mycroft told her, "He'd drank too much, he stormed into his guest room and hit him, just like all those years ago. John and Marie and Adelaide were there, they pulled him off and the housekeeper is taking him to bed."

"Wait- What time is it?"

"It's just gone twenty-two hundred hours." Mycroft told her limply.

Molly sat there in shock, "I… I've been asleep for hours." Her chest tightened, she felt too shocked to move, "Theodore actually struck him?"

"As if he were a child, yes... But mummy doesn't know, I was given the job of telling her and I haven't yet."

"Is that why you're here?"

"I came here because one of the maids said you were in, she walked past you when she was dispersing the party."

"Why, did you want to talk to me?"

"No. I just…" He actually struggled for words, Molly was stunned by how out of character he was, "You have to take Sherlock, John, and yourself home. Don't stay here, for his sake more than anyone's. He's so scared but he doesn't show it, at least in 221B I know he's protected." He sighed, "You're more his family than we ever were or will be, and despite what Sherlock thinks, I don't have exactly the same thoughts as our father. You can leave me to sort the mess he's created; I'm the British government, all I do is clean up the mess people leave behind."

A tear escaped Molly's eyes and she rubbed his hand in comfort, "I'm so sorry this all had to go wrong today, Mycroft."

"It was bound too," The man omitted as he tilted his head back, "We were just too gullible not to notice it earlier." He looked up at her and then slowly moved his hand away as he met his tired eyes with her own, "Go to Sherlock, make sure he's alright. He'll say he is, but- I know you understand him, so you do whatever there is in your power to help him. He won't see a professional; you know how stubborn he is."

Molly sniffed and wiped her eyes again, "Yes."

The pair both exchanged a weak smile as Molly wobbled to her knees and left the room. Once outside she took a moment to let out a long breath, before going to look for Sherlock's room and praying with everything inside her that he was alright on this cold Christmas night.

* * *

_Aw! Poor emotional Mycroft:')_

_I do hope you've enjoyed this chapter and it's crazy contrast from start to end, I felt on a mission when writing it! Things get lighter in the next chapter, I promise!:) I shall try to update tomorrow, but if it is after midnight or actually on New Years Day (Or Sherlock's day for us British folk- I keep forgetting it's New Year's and keep referring it as Sherlock's Day... The fandom has enveloped me...), then Happy New Year! _

_Please review this one, if any of them! It was soo long! _

_Shoutouts to Guest, The awesome beckster, Potix, Renaissancebooklover18, Jacomondo, AveP, AdaYuki, Dont-let-Them-take-You-Alive, and BrandNewHappiness for reviewing! _

_Emily _


	6. We Don't Have to Stick to Poetry

_Guys, I'm SO SORRY this has taken so long! Don't hate me! This is the final chapter for you all and I really hope you've enjoyed this story. Please leave a review and let me know all your thoughts... I read every single one of your reviews.:)_

_Because this story was initially created before Series 3, it is in no way affected by what happened in it (Even though what happened in it was AMAZING)- I just thought I'd let you all know._

_A huge thank you to 'The awesome beckster, SpencerReidFan89, AveP, Bellarsam Chrisjulittle, Teish, kArA123, JudgeTenderlyofMe, X.x, aurimaedre, trinicutiegal, RegiColferK, Jacomondo, Renaissancebooklover108, Zeddy8, NicoleGittens1, amy-is-sherlocked, J.C. Reeves', and the four people who reviewed under the name of 'Guest' for their responses to the previous chapter. I LOVE YOU ALL.  
_

**Chapter 6: We Don't Have to Stick to Poetry**

* * *

_"Mistletoe," said Luna dreamily, pointing at a large clump of white berries placed almost over Harry's head. He jumped out from under it.  
"Good thinking," said Luna seriously. "It's often infested with nargles."  
― J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Order of the __Phoenix_

* * *

_"Go to Sherlock, make sure he's alright. He'll say he is, but- I know you understand him, so you do whatever in your power to help him. He won't see a professional; you know how stubborn he is."_

_Molly sniffed and wiped her eyes again, "Yes."_

_The pair both exchanged a weak smile as Molly wobbled to her knees and left the room. Once outside she took a moment to let out a long breath, before going to look for Sherlock's room and praying with everything inside her that he was alright on this cold Christmas night._

* * *

**A Little While Later, John's Room:**

"John, what happened?" Molly begged.

The army Doctor looked up at Molly, worn and clearly thrown far away from his normal stability he possessed. His shoulders were slumped and frankly he looked tired. "Molly, you know what happened." His voice was small, "Mycroft told you."

"Yes," Molly breathed hopelessly grimacing as an uncontrollable tear fell from her face as her eyes settled on him; quietly she moved to the edge of the bed where he was perched and sat by his side, "But I don't understand it."

John stilled, "After what happened at dinner I came back up to my room. I had punched Theodore and he'd been taken away for medical attention, I attended to myself," Gently he waved his bandaged left hand which Molly hadn't noticed, "The bastard deserved it anyhow… After a while Adelaide and Marie were with me when Sherlock showed up, he started talking about you but he was barely comprehensible. Theodore must have heard him approaching our room, because he came in- Crazy, he was- and he hit Sherlock. I'd never seen anything like the reaction the detective had. It was if it had awoken a dark horror that no child should have ever gone through and he recoiled completely within himself. As we held him back Sherlock abandoned the room and went into his own and locked the door-"

"I know," Molly sighed, "I tried it when I came up."

John went silent for a moment and swallowed, "Molls, what do we do? This… This is beyond us, I-I don't know how to help him; he's my best friend, and I don't know what to do."

Sadly, Molly closed her eyes. John was the most painfully loyal man she'd ever known. Molly knew that what had happened to Sherlock had disturbed him in more ways than he expressed. All of the rumours that spurred about Sherlock and John being a couple were all the result of how honest and trustworthy their companionship was. They loved each other with a passion that was most rare and pure, and at the same time was in no way romantic.

Molly wondered what would happen if she entered their life properly; she'd never want to be an obstacle in their all too wondrous friendship which she idolised with a warm heart.

Swallowing, she closed her eyes and began to talk, "Mycroft told me to take him home tomorrow; to take him back to Baker Street and get him on cases straight away, and eventually the wounds will heal, even if he never tells us how he's feeling."

"He tells you, though," John cut in, Molly blinked at him, "Doesn't he? He tells you how his… Feelings?"

"More so than I notice, I think."

There was a brief silence, before John changed the subject with a lazy firmness in his voice, "Yes… Yes we should head home, tomorrow. I need to take the car back to Harry's anyway. It'll make more sense, I guess."

"It'll be best for him."

"Yes, it will."

As silence crowded the large space again Molly yawned, feeling the emotional wear and tear of the day beating down on her viciously. Despite the roaring hearth, she felt unusually cold. She stretched and thought about what had happened over the course of a day- Christmas day, of all days- And it bought a deep despair to her heart and tears sprung to her eyes. She swallowed to keep them down, it had been too much even for them.

John, a little pale forced a gentle smile onto his face, "We should probably get to bed. Into battle once again tomorrow, I guess."

"Yeah." She replied with a short laugh. Nervously, she went to her feet and headed to the door quietly, she peered over her shoulder, "Good night, John."

"Sleep well, Molly."

Fervently, she reached for the doorway and stepped out into the warm corridor; the air was still laced with the scent of bayberry. She wiped her eyes quickly, biting on her bottom lips as she headed to her door. Briefly, she glanced over to Sherlock's room and her eyes became practically hollow as she pleaded that he was alright.

"Molly?"

The voice startled her. Molly jumped uncontrollably as she turned to the source of the noise. Dressed in a long burgundy gown stood Violet Holmes, aging hair tied up casually much like it had been the day they had met.

Her eyes like her own were a little worn, but much more innocent, as if they hadn't been tainted much by the events of what had happened.

As Molly puzzled over the older woman, she remembered what Mycroft what had said to her.

_Her chest tightened, she felt too shocked to move, "Theodore actually struck him?"_

"_As if he were a child, yes... But mummy doesn't know, I was given the job of telling her and I haven't yet."_

Violet Holmes was almost as much as an enigma as her son was.

It hit Molly in that instant that she was so painfully unaware of what had transpired that evening; Mrs Holmes may have known about what had happened at dinner, but going by the openness of her body language and the pureness in her expression, she had yet to be tainted with the knowledge that her son had been hit by his father as if he were still an innocent child and not a successful detective.

"M-Mrs Holmes," Molly managed in a small voice, her voice wavering uncontrollably.

Violet paused, and her face softened, she approached the pathologist quickly and cupped her face gently, "My dear, are you alright?"

Molly's bottom lip quivered but she summoned the courage she needed. She removed Violet's aged hands from her cheeks and sighed, "Can I talk to you? …I-It's about Sherlock."

She didn't understand just how damaged Sherlock was.

Violet looked unsure, "Molly, it is quite late-"

She didn't know just how much pain her husband had caused.

"I know, Violet... But please. It is important." Molly sighed again,_ "It is so important."_

Violet narrowed her eyes a little before nodding, joining Molly. The pathologist took a long breath, and finally began to speak the truth about Sherlock to his mother. More truth than she'd probably ever been aware of.

* * *

**The Next Day**

On the morning of Boxing Day, Molly was awoken by the unpleasant sound of fists pounding against expensive wood. She groaned and rolled over as her head began to pound. She settled her eyes on the door of her bedroom and hair fell straight into her eye line making her sigh again and push herself from the bed.

Briefly her eyes flickered to her bedside table, and read the time: _5:47am _

To say that Molly grimaced dramatically was an understatement.

She pulled a silk baby pink dressing gown over her shoulders and moved quietly towards the door of her room. Pulling it open, any anger in her expression dropped as her eyes settled on the consulting detective stood before her, fully clothed and smiling warmly. Upon his left cheekbone there was a purple bruise that spread across a couple of inches.

Molly's expression faltered and she didn't return the smile.

"Good morning," Sherlock greeted in a voice full of bravado.

He stepped past her into her room and took the seat in front of the dressing table, leaning back leisurely and lifting his feet onto it.

Molly was still for a moment gazing through the doorway before turning around. "Sher-"

"Get dressed. We're going out on a horse for a while."

Molly's eyes widened, she worried her bottom lip and knitted her brow, and then sagged. He looked so cool and content. He hadn't been like this yesterday, she'd spent hours fretting over his emotional state and now he waltzed in appearing frankly normal, and possibly a little too relaxed compared to what he normally was.

This wasn't the man she'd described to his mother the night before.

As much as it should have been a relief that he appeared okay, it wasn't.

_Sherlock shouldn't be so relaxed._

_He shouldn't be so… Happy._

_He isn't okay._

This was the worst reaction he could have had, she rationalised. Sherlock was staring at her as she gawked at him, jaw slightly open and eyes wide.

Finally, she spoke, "H-horses?"

He lowered his eyebrows at her, "Yes. When we couldn't go riding on the 23rd because of snow I promised you we would on boxing day." Absently he looked at the closed curtains as if imagining the scene outside, "It has still been snowing, and they shan't let us take a horse out unless we beat them to it. Mr Tomlinson's usual sleep habits indicate he won't be up until seven and then involving his drinking last night a fair bet is he won't be up till closer till eight. We have until then."

Molly searched his face for some form of weakness and couldn't find any. It puzzled her beyond belief.

"Molly." Sherlock looked at her, a moment of annoyance flashing over his eyes before he pushed it away, "Get dressed."

"Oh… Y-yes. Okay."

She got changed in the walk-in cupboard adorning all the clothes she had been given for the trip. She couldn't decipher Sherlock as much as she was trying to. He had been through a traumatic event and in response had locked himself away; acting even_ more_ human than she was used to.

Her hands stumbled over the buttons of the shirt she slipped over her shoulders clumsily. She tied her hair up in a ponytail lacking the strictness hers usually did; it loped slightly to one side and it wasn't tight enough. But she was too weary for it to care. She considered make up, but decided against it. It was far too early for that.

Once ready, Sherlock was holding out shoes and a warm coat to her, countenance incomprehensible. They met eyes just for a moment as she put them on in silence and her stomach turned uncomfortably.

_"Violet, Theodore has been abusing Sherlock mentally for years. Even beyond his younger childhood."_

_"No. That's not right, h-he went into rehabilitation. He-"_

_"Just because he was treated doesn't mean he ever stopped. ...I'm sorry."_

Sherlock reached out and took Molly's hand, smiling.

At the contact heat blossomed uncontrollably, but she didn't trust him. The bruise on his cheek screamed at her, and she wanted to reach out, to soothe him and hold him tenderly, but she had the discrete feeling that if she tried to do something he didn't initiate that he would push her away.

Hand in hand, they stole away from Molly's room and through the cold darkness of the house until exiting through the back entrance.

No word was said, and Molly's heart raced as her mind ran crazily over what he was doing and what his intentions were.

A small amount of snow lay on the ground, but it was still dark outside and it was a safe guess what when the sun rose it would surely melt. Without any spoken words they headed towards the stables. The gate was locked. Molly worried her bottom lip but Sherlock simply smirked, releasing her and to her shock he leapt stood up on a nearby rock and leapt over it, unlocking it from the other side. He grinned at her as he pushed it open, "Follow me."

Not questioning him, she followed.

He'd clearly done that before.

Sherlock decided to take the horse that he and Mycroft had argued over a few days before. A pale Mustang horse that went by the name Amadeus, after the composer. Sherlock secured a helmet on both their heads. Offering a hand, he helped her up onto the saddle and then he joined her on the front of it. Gripping the reigns, he turned and murmured, "Hold onto my waist, I shan't go too fast."

Molly gulped.

Nervously she reached around and did as he asked trying to not shiver as the cold wind bit her body. Sherlock made a small noise in confidence, before he kicked the horses' sides and it began a gentle trot form the stable and out of the grounds.

It was so cold, dark and so quiet, the only sound being the horses hooves beating gently upon the trodden snow. Molly unconsciously pressed her cheek up against Sherlock's back and inhaled his scent. This was romantic, so unbelievably romantic and she couldn't help internally swooning despite the circumstances.

"Molly," Sherlock snorted, staring ahead, "I didn't know horses could do this to you."

She knitted her brow, "What do you mean?"

"You're aroused."

Gasping, she very nearly let go of his waist in reaction as blood drained from her face. Instantly he pulled her back to him using on hand, "Steady." He hummed.

She didn't know if he directed the word at the horse or herself.

"Sherlock-" She gasped, awkwardly, "I… I'm not."

"_Please," _Sherlock snickered, "At this close proximity I can feel every single change in your body. Don't question me."

"B-but I'm not! I don't- That's- No."

He laughed, "It's perfectly acceptable. I am as well."

That was when her jaw dropped. She wanted to get away, she so desperately needed air. The horse, the poor innocent horse kept _trudging on_ unknowing of the scene the human's played out above it.

Molly's response was a simple breath, "Sherlock-"

"Not sexually aroused," He explained calmly, "…But sentimentally." Then he pause, and she felt him swallow and his whole body stilled for the briefest moment as he murmured, "That's something I never thought I'd be saying."

Blinking, Molly pressed up her cheek on his back again, "Don't be afraid of it."

He sighed, "I'm not. I'm experimenting with it."

Molly's heart swelled although she didn't entirely understand what he meant. Suddenly he straightened up again and kicked against the horse until it stopped, murmuring things such as 'Easy, Amadeus'.

He swung his leg effortlessly over the horse and jumped down into the snow, smiling at her. An awkward, childish grin.

Molly only saw was the bruise upon his cheek.

Gently, without even asking he helped her off the horse securely and taking her hand. They had headed quite a bit away from the house itself, but Molly was convinced they were still on the grounds. They hadn't entered any woods, but were on the outskirts of it.

He studied the trees for a moment, deducing, no doubt, and then blinking at her, "Follow me."

"What about the horse?"

"_-Amadeus."_

"-Amadeus. Won't he… Gallop off?"

Sherlock looked the horse over, and then blinked at Molly, "Of course not. Amadeus knows his duty."

Without a word he headed into the woods, and she followed after him burying her hands into her pockets to avoid the fresh winter chill.

They'd only walked for a moment or two when they stopped. Sherlock tilted his head upwards and Molly joined his side, casting her gaze curiously to where his eyes were. A few feet up of an oak tree was a small hut, with a wooden ladder leading up to it. The whole thing was worn and worse for wear, but it still stood proudly with a sense of security to it.

"After father came back from rehabilitation he built this for Mycroft and myself, as an apology for being away for so long; It was probably more of an apology to Mycroft than me, but I accepted that a long time ago."

The air caught in Molly's throat, she turned her head to look at him, confused, "Theodore built this?"

"All alone, yes. One of the few times he actually did anything independently." His brow knitted just a fraction as he spoke, and then he swallowed. Molly was once again confounded at how out of character he appeared, but yet again still so in-tune with his character she didn't understand it.

Softly, Molly asked, "Why… Why are you showing me this?"

"I spent a lot of time here, reading and deducing. Besides being educated by masters at home I think it was here independently my genius formed." He continued, not acknowledging her, "But then again it cost my social skills. Other children hated me," A small smile touched his lips in a wry smile, "They still do."

"You don't give yourself enough credit."

"Neither do you."

Molly teeth began to chatter as she asked again, "Why are you showing me this?"

He shrugged, " I don't want you to think that my childhood was totally insufferable, Molly, because it wasn't. I wasn't always as week as you seem to think. I got over it, and I did it independently. Regardless of mine and my father's relationship I was still raised _well. _He treated my mother alright, too. They've been married for fifty-four years now._" _

Alarm bells suddenly went off in Molly's head, and in that moment she cracked him. Yesterday, and for most of the time they had been here he had seemed off-guard, lost and detached and utterly and completely not himself. It made sense to her that now he was trying to show her that he was in fact strong, because with what had conspired he seemed to be pretty much the opposite. He thought that because she learnt about his rocky past that he wasn't the same man, but one less desirable.

And all that was complete poppycock.

"Molly-"

"…You don't have to try and make excuses. I know you were raised well and trust me, Sherlock, you- uh, you are even more beautiful to me now than you were before you came." He literally stepped backwards, "You are not a bad person, or a weak one. You are stronger for what I've learnt and I will never change my view of you." She shivered, "What we… What we have now, I don't want to change it. U-Unless you want to."

He was staring at the snow beneath her feet, "How can you want me now you know how insecure I am about people? I determine everything about them when I see them just to make sure that they hold no harm." His voice was bitter in the cold air, "My biggest weakness are my deductions, and no one, even you, should be so morbidly aware of that."

Molly snuck her cold hand into his warmer one, "You know that I'm not going to judge you over something that happened over twenty years ago, right?"

"…I know." He murmured, cutting her off.

Slowly, Sherlock turned to her and his whole expression softened as he deduced her. Her gaze held his for a long time.

Suddenly, he moved back and shook his head, "No."

"What?"

"Mycroft told you to convince me to go back to Bakerstreet early." Sherlock explained, "I won't, I can't."

Molly's jaw dropped slightly. How had he deduced that?

Nervously, Molly let go of his hand and lowered her head, "I, uh… Don't you think it'd be best if we did leave?"

"Yes, I do."

She frowned, "Then why won't you?"

He shrugged, "Adelaide."

_Oh._

Molly drew her arms around herself against the cold and the dark, "Can't you bring her back to Bakerstreet?"

For the first time in days, an expression passed on the detective's face that made her feel stupid. "Obviously not. For her safety I don't see her anymore, I'm not permitted to and it's better of that way. If people who want me dead- And believe me they're in larger numbers than you know- Discover that I have a daughter from wedlock they will use it against me. They could hurt her, kidnap her, black mail her… Kill her." Deep in the distance of his eyes, Molly felt his regret luring at her, hidden by a dark veil but undoubtedly still there.

"I can't risk her safety by taking her home with us. Her plane back to Lithuania departs on the 28th, we shall not leave until then… Because after this I don't know when I'll ever be able to see her again."

* * *

Later at the Holmes' Mansion, Molly found herself in the rarest situation. It was barely 8am, and no one besides the house keepers were awake. She was sat in the parlour, as _Sherlock _prepared them Breakfast.

She'd offered to help, but he'd dismissed her and told her to sit down.

Molly watched him absently. John had told her once before that he didn't even know how to cook, and this astonished her. He didn't care for food, didn't favour the expensive rich brands to take always, didn't pine over the art of cooking; In short food just wasn't his area. And it shocked her that at that moment he was moving around the kitchen gracefully knowing where everything was, preparing it with precision as if he'd been doing it for years.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Where did you learn how to cook? I mean, uh, who taught you?"

Opening the fridge and retrieving a tub of butter, he shrugged, "I taught myself at University."

She giggled.

Frowning, he turned around and faced her grimly, "What is so amusing, Molly?"

"So at University you cooked properly whereas now you live off barely anything, and crap?" She smirked at his puzzled expression, "Talk about digressing from the stereotype…"

"What stereotype would that be?"

"Oh. You know… University students, spending all their money on cheap night's out and takeaways"

"I'm not your average person then and I'm not now." He omitted before she could get carried away.

Molly's eyes lowered a little and he paused briefly, before continuing with cooking.

Molly began to struggle with silence as he prepared food for the both of them. So she decided to take a new angle, "…Do we have a plan for today, then?"

"Ah." He began, as he reached out for two eggs and cracked them into a pan, "Well I figured it would be best if we kept out of everyone's way given what happened yesterday." His voice became softer at the end of the statement and Molly noticed. He took a quick breath before continuing, not looking at her, "So I supposed we could spend morning in bed once this is made."

Molly's eyes widened.

_Spend morning in bed._

She began to blush furiously.

"Y-You… You mean sleeping?"

He rolled his eyes and finally turned leaning his elbows back onto the kitchen side. "If you wish to. But I've had enough sleep in these past few days to last me a whole month. I was considering the fact that we're emotionally ready to move things ahead."

"Sherlock?"

"As in intimately."

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

Molly blushed a deep crimson.

Sherlock stared at her coolly, gaging her response.

Silently, he headed over and shrugged an arm over her back, startling her further.

There was a moment in which neither of them moved, until she finally turned and got up from her chair. Sherlock watched her curiously as she removed his arm from her shoulders and held the hand in her own. Her eyes were sad and he tightened his lower lip.

Softly, she reached out with her free hand and traced it over his hair as she eased herself closer.

Sherlock's eyes bore into hers, and suddenly his deductions began to crumble into a thick blur as his chest tightened.

She leant in, and met it lips in a soft kiss.

At the contact his eyes fluttered closed and he used his free hand to press her closer. But as he did, he felt her hand in his hair moving down his face and running it over his bruised cheekbone.

He inhaled sharply and parted them.

When Molly didn't remove her hand a pained look overcame his face, one that told Molly everything she needed to know. "You're not ready for this… As much as I," She blushed, "Want to be with you I won't be until I know you can cope. You're in shock because Theodore struck you yesterday; If you were sleeping with me we now we may as well both be drunks acting without thought, the effects would be dreadful."

"I…" Disarmed, Sherlock lowered his head a little, "I shouldn't- Sorry."

"It's okay," She hushed, lowering her hand a little so it rested on his jaw, "Don't explain yourself. I know how hurt and beaten up you are…" A smirk reached her face uncontrollably, "But you're not a man for emotion and I don't want to detract yourself from that, unless I ask you to."

A small smile touched his eyes, "…Thank you."

As her hand reached for the back of his neck, they pulled each other into a heart searing kiss as the kettle boiled and crumpets' leapt from the toaster. Molly moaned uncontrollably and opened her mouth to him which he didn't hesitate in taking full advantage of.

"Ugh, someone pass me a bucket."

The pair both immediately disconnected themselves and revolved to the source of the noise, blushing.

In a dark green night dress, Marie stood in the doorway as her head tilted to one side. She was grinning at them both wickedly, proud of herself for disturbing them, yet again.

"Good morning, cousin of mine." Drawled Sherlock, immediately moving to pour the kettle.

Molly sat down again and shuffled her hands together uncomfortably.

"Morning, Sherly" She greeted in response receiving a cruel glare from the detective.

Marie sat down in the chair opposite Molly and grinned at her, crossing her legs and leaning back. She watched Sherlock with a raised eyebrow for a moment, "Please tell me you're not making Breakfast. How…_ Domestic_ of you."

Marie fixed her pale eyes on Molly as she said the words.

"_Please. _I've been tortured by terrorists in the third world who cooked each other dinner afterwards, and I'd hardly call them domestic."

"Yes but I hardly guess they were eating crumpets and drinking tea either."

Sherlock glowered at her and she sat back smugly, resting her head in her slender hands.

"Molly, you made quite the impression on Auntie Violet last night, you know?"

Sherlock handed both women a cup of tea, they're preferred style as he'd deduced from them both years ago. His expression contorted at his cousin's words. He blinked at Molly, "When did you speak to mother?"

Her stomach clenched guiltily, "Last night. After…" She trailed off.

Marie looked at Sherlock with genuine empathy, however it barely touched her out features and could have easily been mistook for apathy if one had not been in tune with the Holmes'.

"Violet has been in her study all night until now." Marie told them, "She's… Preparing."

Sherlock frowned and so did Molly. "Preparing for what?"

There was a moment of silence before Marie replied softly, carefully treading over the words she chose, "…For justice, for you."

Laughs bellowed from outside the door, breaking the tension. Marie sighed as Molly looked over and Sherlock didn't react.

"_Dwight- Shush, they'll hear-"_

"_It's too early, they're all still asleep."_

"_You shouldn't be so confident."_

"_Oh please, Mycroft." _

_There was a sigh, "Let's just go and get food."_

"_Hm. Food. Don't you think you're already full from-"_

"_Sex doesn't constitute food."_

"_Dear me, anyone would think you're becoming like your brother-"_

"_But it doesn't The release of glycogen from-"_

_A light voice giggled. "Come on-"_

The kitchen door pushed open and the two men stumbled right into the trajectory of the astounded faces of Molly, Sherlock, and Marie.

"Shit" Dwight breathed, practically hiding himself behind the elder Holmes brother who was in a dressing gown… And nothing else.

Marie pressed a hand to her lips to stop herself from laughing.

Molly looked down, around, anywhere but at the two men.

The dressing gown didn't exactly leave anything to the imagination.

Sherlock's gaze fixed on his brother's firmly in a '_Silently judging you' _gesture at Mycroft's albeit hypocritical nature given what he'd found himself and Molly like the morning before.

Mycroft swallowed, smoothing his hands down his sides awkwardly. "Sherlock."

"Brother."

There was an obdurate silence.

Unable to hold in a laugh, Dwight scampered from the room and Mycroft watched after him. He turned his icy gaze back to his brother, who had his eyebrows raised condescendingly.

Mycroft knitted his brow as he realised, "You caused this to happen with Dwight, didn't you?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and looked at Molly.

"Yesterday you let Dwight work out that I been with his wife as well as him, so that they'd split and up and he'd come back to me full time knowing about my albeit repulsive feelings. How did you know that he'd forgive me? You deduced I felt deeply for him, and you helped me... Why did you do that, Sherlock?"

Sherlock blinked at his brother innocently. "A magician never reveals his secrets."

"...Rightly so, brother of mine. Rightly so." Molly was shocked to see how regal Mycroft looked despite the predicament he had been caught in. The head of the British Government stood in a dressing gown still appeared the most prominent and respected figure in the room. It was just the sort of presence Mycroft had.

Mycroft turned to leave, but then stopped. Sherlock sat back because he'd expected it.

"You breathe one word of this to our parents and I'll skin you, understand?" The older Holmes brother warned.

"Is it usual for a host to kill a guest, Mycroft?"

"Oh… In certain rarified circles, at least."

He left without another word.

Sherlock expected there to be masses of laughter after Mycroft abandoned the room looking an embarrassing shade of pink, but none came. He realized that Molly and Marie were looking at each other and sharing an unspoken conversation. Any amusement bought on by Mycroft's romance had dissipated as soon as he'd gone.

He narrowed his eyes a little and watched as Marie turned to her cousin and watched him with similar eyes to his own. She reached out and touched his wrists from across the table.

"Sherlock, your mother is filing for a divorce."

* * *

**New Year's Eve**

_No new messages._

Molly sighed, running a hand through her hair. She read her mobile once, twice, as she left Bart's morgue, just to be sure. She just wanted to be certain he hadn't contacted her.

At first, she had understood.

On Boxing Day Sherlock sent Molly and John home upon hearing about the divorce. He insisted it was personal family business and hadn't wanted them involved. Given how fragile he had been, and how much he hated them seeing him that way it made sense. So she and John had headed back to central London and gone their separate ways.

On her first night home with only her cat Toby, Molly had felt an ache in her chest like no other. The trip had changed so many things about her and how she viewed the consulting detective, and she missed him dreadfully.

Arguably more so than she had when he'd been 'dead'.

But she accepted it nonetheless, because she had understood that the family was about it be thrown into a hell of a lot of personal drama and he didn't want them caught up in it.

One text would have been nice, though.

Just one message to make sure he was alright.

A couple of days later she finally heard from John, he called her to let her know that Sherlock was back at Bakerstreet.

This had been on the 28th.

Molly had offered to come over, but John had in few words implied that he was otherwise occupied and it'd be in her best interest if she didn't.

At home at the time, she sent out a quick message to Sherlock.

_Are you okay?  
-Molly_

And he hadn't replied.

Starting to feel anxious, Molly went up to Bakerstreet herself, she wanted to surprise him but they hadn't been in and Mrs Hudson was away. Sighing, she headed home. "Don't pry, Molly." Molly scolded herself in a terrible imitation of Sherlock's voice to amuse herself and ease her troubled mind. It didn't do either.

By New Years Eve she still hadn't heard anything, and to her surprise neither Sherlock or John had paid a visit to the Morgue.

That morning she had just gotten off the tube at St Pauls' station and had headed across Newgate Street towards St Bart's when she had crashed right into another man running across the road. The force nearly sent her toppling over. She felt sticky hands on her arms before she looked up, and when she did she startled backwards. Sherlock was stood in front of her, breathing heavily, covered head to toe in a bright green thick liquid.

Paint. Green paint.

"Sherlock!" John shouted a few feet away, in the same situation as his companion.

"So sorry Molly," Sherlock omitted quickly, not looking at her, "I do hope you'll join us at Bakerstreet for New Year's tonight."

He and John ran off before she could say anything, before she could react.

She'd stumbled into her office soon after ignoring the looks from her colleagues noticing that she had some green paint stuck on her clothes, hair, and a little on her face. She washed quickly and slipped on her lab coat, and then cried.

She didn't know why she did, he'd just asked her round and she should have been happy.

But at the same time, he hadn't looked at her like he'd known her in the street. It was the same looks he had given her years ago, before he had given her any notice. It worried her because she thought she had lost him and she had no idea what she had done wrong.

At that moment she felt a light buzz in her pocket and she lifted her mobile to her face.

_8pm.  
Don't wear anything fancy.  
Just be you.  
-SH_

Later, Molly found herself at the door of 221B Bakerstreet, worrying her bottom lip.

She was terrified.

She was terrified everything had gone back to normal.

And that this would be like that dreadful Christmas she'd had at Bakerstreet a couple of years before.

At the Holmes' estate, thing had been different; they both had been thrown out of their normal lives, their normal business and covers. They, in a sense, had been exposed completely. But now back in London everything could easily snap back. Sherlock had a tendency to change his mind on a whim, and it wouldn't surprise her if he was going to act as if nothing had happened between them.

But she didn't want that.

She loved him too much to let him do that.

"Molly!" Came the delighted call from Greg Lestrade, rushing over to meet her.

Not having seen him in days, Molly smiled and the pair hugged happily, laughing a little to avoid the moment feeling intimate in any logic.

Withdrawing himself, the DI produced a large dark green bottle, "I bought champagne."

Molly giggled half-heartedly, "Oh, wonderful. How've you been?"

Greg smiled as he took the initiative to head into the flat and walking ahead of her up the stairs. Molly's stomach began to twist angrily.

"Okay."

"Good! Now, I heard that you spent Christmas with Sherlock and his family? John said that Sherlock invited you-"

"Uh, yes..."

"Well then we do have a lot to catch up on, I suppose. I could never spend a full holiday with that man. You'd have to be a Saint not to blow his brains out."

_Or to kiss it senseless. _

Molly expected him to continue, but Greg just opened the door to the flat and stepped in, "Hello everyone!"

Molly followed in timidly behind him.

They were met by the warm smiles of John and Mrs Hudson. Sherlock stood with his back to them on the settee, glancing at his wall covered in photos and documents stuck to it, tapping his chin.

He was on a case.

"Hoo-hoo! Oh dearie, please give me your coat!" Gushed Mrs Hudson, reaching out for Molly affectionately.

"I thought you were at your sisters," Molly told her lightly, slipping out of her beige coat and smoothing down her dress.

"Oh, I got home around an hour ago. It was just lovely- And oh! Look at that dress, how charming on you!"

Mrs Hudson smiled as she went to retrieve Greg's coat as well and Molly shuffled her feet awkwardly on the floor. She had decided to wear a simple cream lace dress with black tights and flat shoes. She wanted to look nice, but she still felt she looked like herself.

John smiled at her warmly and approached her side, "Molly, how are you? I meant to contact you more, but we've been occupied on a case."

"It's fine," She dismissed politely, "How have things been, you know… With you and Sherlock?" She decided not to answer his question on how she was, because she didn't want to lie and tell him she'd been perfectly fine.

Slowly, John shrugged, "It's been alright. Sherlock's been a bit… _Off _since coming home. I don't know much, all he told me is that because his parents are splitting up his mother is losing the estate and a lot of money. They are breaking up because of him, of course… I asked him if he needed any support and he dismissed me. He said that any support he got should come... From you."

A gentle smile tugged on his lips at that, but Molly frowned, asking softly, "Then why didn't he contact me?"

"We got distracted. We got a case." John explained, "Don't blame him. You know what he's like when he's… Otherwise occupied."

"Let's pop the cork open!" Announced Greg happily. Molly, Mrs Hudson and John waltzed over as Sherlock merely grunted and kept his attention to the wall.

Sherlock's mind whirred. He needed a motive. He'd narrowed the murder of Savannah White to four suspects. _Molly's here._ But he had no motives, and he had four alibis. _You could ask her._ A motive would contradict the alibi. _You miss her._ The motive would answer all- _You love her-_ the questions. After all- _Argh!- _not every murder is conducted through- _I wonder what she's wearing-_ drowning the victim in acrylic paint, as someone had so delightfully tried- _I need to talk to her-_ To do to him and John that morning- _I can't think!_

A 'POP!' rang through the air as the champagne burst open. The guests laughed and cheered as Greg's hand went absently to Molly's back.

"Oh, shut up!" Barked the detective, throwing his arms outwards with force. Mrs Hudson winced. Molly turned her eyes worriedly to the detective. "I can't think! My head it won't… Argh!"

"Sherlock" John warned.

The detective left of the settee and ran his hands through his hair, growling. Suddenly he turned, grabbing Molly's hand.

"I need you." He growled, before pulling her away and into the bathroom.

There was an awkward silence. "What was that about?" Greg questioned, raising a curious eyebrow at John.

John shrugged hopelessly, "…I don't know. Shall we turn on BBC now?" He seemed anxious to change the subject.

The pair all made small talk as they turned on the television.

John's eyes kept flicking over to the bathroom and then back again. Aware that although he may have been well aware of _what _Sherlock's outburst had been about, he didn't w_ant _to know what was happening because of it.

* * *

"I missed you," Sherlock breathed between breathless kisses, "I missed you so much."

He pushed her up against the bathroom wall and ran his hands down her sides. "S-Sher-"

She couldn't get a word out because he was kissing her again, opening his mouth to hers in a furious battle for control and intimacy. Hands trembling, Molly laced her fingers into his hair and pulling him closer. He moaned. Want burst in her stomach like she had never felt before with him, with anyone; All of the doubts she had about him vanished in an instant.

Soon the desire for air pressed at them so desperately they had to part, panting in breathless anticipation as their foreheads pressed together.

"H-Hello." Molly giggled.

Sherlock snorted and held her close, "Greetings, Doctor Hooper."

"Sherlock… What is- what's…" His hands reached around to her lower back, "Ahh-"

"I'm apologising."

He drew her in for another kiss but her hands swept to his collar-bone and pushed him back, "For what?"

"For not replying to your text."

He smirked at her dumbfounded expression, and began to kiss her neck hungrily. Her legs began to feel weak.

"Everyone's out there-"

"Mm-" He hummed against her skin. She shivered.

"Sherlock-"

"Molly."

She began to struggle a little, "We can't-"

With a sigh of defeat, he let stopped his bout on her neck and moved back a little. "Why not? You're clearly ah… Ready." He pointed out, acknowledging her physical state.

Molly blushed, but her expression softened, "How are you?"

"How am I?" He seemed horrified.

"Yes." She kissed his jaw briefly, before pulling away, "How are you?"

He stared at her as if she was crazy.

"I'm... Perfectly well."

"And the family?"

"Coping."

"Adelaide?"

"Back home in Lithuania. I didn't want her to leave."

"And your father?"

"Still making my life a living hell." He slowed down suddenly, and moved back a little more.

"Oh," Molly breathed, "…He's still in contact with you?"

"More contact than ever, it would seem." He knitted his brow and frowned coldly, "I doubt he'll be on my radar for much longer, though."

"Has he tried to reason with you?"

"No. Quite the opposite. He threatened to kill me for _telling mother lies. _Only it was you who told my mother everything and none of them were lies."

Sherlock began to look a little lost, and Molly moved off the wall to hug him. Still not used to her comfort like this, he gently held her. "You think he could try and, erm, to kill you?"

"Obviously not. He's old, deluded and stupid. If anything, Mycroft's pulling out the restraining order card to keep him away from me."

Molly thought for a moment in silence, before she lifted her head again, "What happened when he threatened you?"

"He'd just came out with a meeting with mummy and her lawyer. He was angry and then he threatened me when I pointed out he was fighting a losing battle. …It," He swallowed, "It was terrifying."

There was no emotion in his voice, but his words carried all the pain in them. Molly pulled herself closer and kissed his cheek, his temple, before he tilted his head and kissed her mouth sweetly. "You don't have to worry about him anymore, "Molly assured him, "I promise you, you don't."

"See, this is why I needed you back." He muttered to himself.

"What do you mean?"

"Mycroft told me to keep away from you until all this had blown over. I tried to, but in the end he was wrong; you are the only thing keeping my mind steady whilst all this is happening."

Molly smiled her heart dancing with sweet palpitations in her chest.

"…I love you, Sherlock." She managed softly.

In any other circumstance, she would have never had said it unless she'd been in a relationship for months. She didn't even know if her and Sherlock were in a relationship anyway. But she knew that he knew that she loved him, so she felt no need to hide it.

Sherlock stared at her pensively, reaching out and tracing her jaw. Her head tilted into his touches. "Molly… I…" His smile faltered, "Love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. The word love brings the promise of pain and anguish, and I don't want that." Molly's mouth hung open slightly, her eyes bore into him with curiosity that made him feel blessed and adored, like he had never been before.

"I have no words to describe how strongly I feel for you, Molly. But I do not even understand the concept of love. Love is such a typecast term. I like to think our affection will go beyond the boundaries of that into something much more powerful, so prevailing it need no description or label. I shall not use the word love, because this isn't it; it's so much more unique than that. A label like that wouldn't even come close to expression how deeply I feel for you; I am not a normal man and this is not a normal relationship, we don't have to stick to poetry."

Molly's bottom lip trembled as a tear fell from her eyes. Sherlock panicked, "Molly, what's wrong?"

She laughed at him, "Oh, come here-"

She kissed him fully; she kissed him completely. She left his knees weak and his breathing uneven. She put everything she had into that one moment of affection.

No, this wasn't love. This was more than that.

Molly grinned as she decided she'd have to make up a word to for the statement.

"Love…" Sherlock moaned against her lips, brow furrowing.

Molly pressed him closer. He went stiff. "Love." He repeated louder, opening his eyes. "Love…" He pushed away from her, grinning, "That's it!"

"What?"

"Love! The killer's motive! LOVE!"

He leapt in the air, and then gave Molly a full on kiss on the mouth before running out of the bathroom.

"Love!" He chanted, "I've got it! Yes!"

"Got what?" Molly called, poking her head out of the bathroom. Quickly she looked back in the mirror, straightened her dress and hair willing away the blush on her cheeks and she bustled from the bathroom.

Sherlock was prancing around the living room, dragging Lestrade alongside him. "The killer is Carlisle. An unintelligent enemy is far less dangerous than an intelligent one, Lestrade. He acted stupid but he isn't. The bumbling artist, the bumbling man who lived in a state of surrealism; the man loved Savannah and that's why he painted for her. It was a plea. He killed for his art, don't you see? It was an act of love!"

"No, I don't-"

"His painting!" He pointed out a photo copy he had of the said painting on his wall, "Those figures he created, those people were all in thick vibrant colours. Remember? He needed models. And how else could he catch the perfect shading and lighting without covering people in the paint themselves."

"But that means-"

"That there'll be more victims. I'm sure a thorough search of his house would suffice that."

"But why Savannah?"

"Don't you remember? When we saw him he said-"

"'She kept asking me to paint her because he captured the bodies so beautifully on canvas'" John recalled, remembering his talk with Savannah's grieving _friend. _

"I deduced his feelings went as far as love. He only painted what he loved and would spend hours perfecting it. She admired and appreciated his work; she asked to be part of it… She literally signed her own death sentence. Carlisle would not deny his chance to capture the woman he loved so dearly onto canvas forever, because that meant her imminent death didn't make it an act of hatred. It just made it more beautiful in his eyes. His motive was love. Lestrade, I suggest you arrest him right away."

The DI nodded and slipped on his coat pulling out his phone, "I'm calling the party off early I suppose."

"Oh it doesn't matter. A case is solved on New Year's Eve; It means we can start the next year afresh. Everything will be new," His gaze flickered to Molly, "Everything will be different now."

"Right. Yes." Agreed Lestrade numbly, heading for the door, "Good night everyone, have fun."

"Thanks for coming Greg." John smiled.

"Be careful in that ice, my dear!" Mrs Hudson warned fondly, approaching the door.

Sherlock approached Molly and swept her around.

Lestrade turned before heading down the stair case. The words 'I will do, Mrs Hudson' hung on his lips but failed to produce as his jaw dropped at the sight of Sherlock kissing Molly fully on the lips behind them. Mrs Hudson frowned and turned, and nearly fainted at the sight.

"Love' just solved my case." He breathed against Molly's lips, "You just solved it. Thank you."

* * *

Through the blinking dark morning light of London's beating heart a soft melody flowed and moved through the air, whispering in a soundless night as if it were carved for a higher glory.

Bakerstreet slept mutely among the weary and the intoxicated who had breathed in the yellow and moving parties that had taken place hours beforeand now all slept in darkness. At 221B however, there was still an unremitting yellow glow breathing from the windows; breathing in the music of the winter night's air. Within the yellow light, two figures moved with each other. They absorbed the only constant warmth on the sleeping street within each other's arms. Flesh pressed against each other's as the music carried them away with a glimmering promise of love and affection.

"Sherlock," Molly sighed, voice barely a whisper as a tenor's soft vibrato hummed through her whole body like the call of God.

Hands delicately on her waist Sherlock moved them around in a soft dance alone in the Living Room. Soft songs reverberated from deep within his throat, echoing the paralyzing melody of the singer who was being played quietly on a nearby speaker, right into Molly's ear; her body burned with delight at the soft timbre of Sherlock's voice, she'd never heard him sing before. Whilst the singer on the speaker swelled in a rich loud tone, Sherlock's remained quiet and soothing creating the aura of them only in the space, detached from the mad world around them where they could stay in peace for as long as they wanted.

As his breath brushed her fair skin, she titled her neck, "What is it?"

He leaned back a little and stopped singing, his brow contorting a little but his eyes remained a soft blue enigma, "What's what?"

Running her hands over his collar bone, she smiled lightly, "The song, what is it?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "The aria is Una Furtiva Lagrima," he explained in a perfect Italian dialect that made her smirk uncontrollably, "From the opera L'elisir d'amore composed by Gaetano Donizetti."

"What is it about?"

"The opera is the story of a poor peasant, Nemorino. He-"

"No," Molly giggled softly, moving her hands and placing a finger against his lips to stop him talking. Sherlock glared at her as she eagerly prompted, "The song-"

"Aria."

"Tell me about the aria."

A passive expression overtook the detective's face as he stared at Molly; her hollow eyes ceaselessly taking in his every detail. Then suddenly he removed himself from her. As the cold air swallowed her body, Molly visibly shuddered and grieved his absence for a moment. He stole away to their speaker and put the song back to the start, expression unreadable. With the grace of a lynx, he swept back over to the pathologist and took her hands, beginning to dance slowly like before.

Molly was biting her lip as she stared at her feet which stumbled clumsily at nearly every turn when he began to speak into her ear directly, reciting the tenor's melody, but in salacious spoken English which made soft vibrations to course for her whole body. Molly could never accept that all this was real. It was too perfect.

"_A single furtive tear  
from her eyes sprang:  
Of those festive, young girls  
envious it seemed to be.  
What more need I look for?_

_She loves me! Yes, she loves me, I see it. I see it._  
_Just for an instant the beating of_  
_her beautiful heart I felt!_  
_And my sighs became as one_  
_fleetingly with her sighs!_  
_Her heart beating, her heart beating to feel,_  
_our sighs confounded as one..._

_Oh, heavens! Yes I could! Yes I could die!_  
_More I can't ask, I can't ask._  
_Yes I could die! If I could die of love."_

"Except it isn't love." Molly joked, raising her eyebrows a little.

"Who said the song was about us?" Sherlock commented lightly, "Nemorino was an idiot. I don't care much for him."

A giggle escaped Molly's throat and she stood up taller pressing her lips to his. It was in that moment he decided to simply follow his inhibitions and kiss her back with as much passion as he'd been wanting to for a long time. He knew she was ready, and he knew he had been for a long time too.

Their kissing grew more passionate with every fleeting moment and Sherlock couldn't remember ever feeling so complete before. He moaned because he wanted her physically, he moaned because he wanted her heart and her mind and everything that was her.

Molly was his.

And he was hers.

As they began to tremble with longing Sherlock did the appropriate thing and guided them to his bedroom, making a hasty retreat to turn of the speakers before running- Yes, running- Back to meet her. It was time he showed Molly just how thankful he was for everything she had ever done for him.

She'd helped him fake his death, she'd stuck up for him against his father, he'd accepted his weaknesses, and now her emotion showed him the way to solving a case. He felt he'd never be able to do enough to show her how utterly grateful he was. And that night, her certainly didn't intend to_ stop_ showing her, either.

* * *

The next morning, John was surprised when he found the Living Room of Bakerstreet perfectly empty. Yawning, he took in the mess left from the night before and what he'd have to do today to put everything back in place ready for the new year.

Firstly, there was the Christmas tree still up from the day's prior to them leaving for the Holmes' estate; it was small, tacky really- And whilst John had claimed it's importance was sentimental value Sherlock had laughed incessantly merely at the notion. It would have to come down today before Sherlock would complain even more.

Then John settled his eyes upon all the notes and documents for the case they'd been solving up on the wall. They'd have to all come down too.

As his eyes lowered he saw the champagne bottle and glasses on the desk next to his laptop. John glowered at the risks of it. Some glasses were still half full and the bottle hadn't even been finished. Sighing, that was where John went first to begin to clean the flat.

It was a new year, and as John walked tiredly he began to ponder what exactly it would bring.

"Good morning John," Greeted Sherlock as he exited his room in his bed sheet and nothing else; He blinked irritably against the Winter Sunlight burning through the windows.

"Morning." John replied- Rolling his eyes at Sherlock's attire- As he turned on the tap and struggled to wash out the champagne glasses next to several test tubes and culture dishes.

"Morning!" Chirped a female voice causing John to still and turn.

Molly joined the two men in the kitchen, wearing one of Sherlock's shirts- and John prayed- something underneath. Her hair was sticking out in several directions and Sherlock smirked at her.

"So… You uh, you stayed the night then?"

"Obviously she did, John. It's highly unlikely she showed up at the flat this morning in that state of dress." Sherlock muttered.

Molly gave John a sorry look as she sat down, Sherlock taking the seat next to her. Sherlock looked at Molly for a moment, before asking blatantly "Why are you wearing my shirt?"

"I told you," Molly sighed, "I'm not walking around the flat in my underwear."

"Why not?"

"It's weird. I'm not walking around the flat in my underwear or my clothes from last night."

"And I told you Molly, you don't have to."

John literally grimaced facing away from them.

"Naked isn't an option, Sherlock."

"Of course it is. Any person can decide to be naked at any time they-"

"But it's _weird!" _

"I'm naked under this sheet. Does that make me 'weird'?"

Molly blinked, "No… But, that's you"

"And what is the difference?"

"I don't- I just-" She threw her head back, "_Argh!_ It's too early for this!"

Sherlock grinned and laughed. "Too early to discuss the moral obligation to be clothed?"

John screwed up his face. Sherlock was teasing her.

"Yes!" Molly replied in a high pitched squeak.

"Would you rather all of us, including John be naked so we don't have to have this conversation?-"

"What?!" John exclaimed, turning around.

"-Even then, I suppose we could."

"No, no! No one is getting naked!" Molly squealed, "It's… No. Eew!"

She rose from her feet and scurried into the living room. Sherlock sauntered after her dragging the bed sheet with him. "You weren't saying that last night."

"_Sherlock." _Molly hissed, acknowledging John.

The detective smiled and suddenly pulled Molly into the bedsheet with him. John's jaw dropped and he turned around. She giggled hysterically as Sherlock pulled her close. "Molly guess what?"

"What?"

"I bet Married Cousin Frederick would love you in that shirt."

"Shut up!" Molly giggled, hitting him on the chest just as Sherlock pulled her close for a kiss that'd remove any retort from her body in an instant.

* * *

_"For last year's words belong to last year's language_  
_And next year's words await another voice._  
_And to make an end is to make a beginning."_  
_- T.S. Elliot_

* * *

Thank you everyone for the AMAZING response and support for this story; I'd love to hear your thoughts on this ending chapter.

Any prompts for another Sherlock fic, oneshot or otherwise? Tell me if you do and I'll be happy to oblige:) I need inspiring!

Much love,

Emily


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